By Amanda Gayle Oliver
Boys.
Boys beat
Drums
Tap
Women
On
The head,
Exhale
Control.
As he
Breathes in,
Cramps
Inside her
Uterus
Cry out
For release.
Hormones
Gush
Out
Through
Tear ducts,
Orange,
Red,
Corduroy.
Boys.
Boys use
Sticks
To hit
Drums.
Slap women
On
The ass.
Sing
Of freedom
And love.
Women watch,
Watch
As boys
Laugh
Forever
The audience,
While boys
Stand
On chicken
Wire stage
Dicks
Raised
Honoring
The brave.
Boys.
Never
afraid,
Beat.
Tap.
Exhale.
Slap.
Sing.
Bow.
Laugh.
Leave.
She screams.
Screams.
Screams.
Until
She is
Woman,
Anything
But silent.
Amanda Gayle Oliver is a Southern Belle by birth and a New Englander by heart. First published at sixteen, in the Birmingham News, her poetry and prose have also been published in the Boston Literary Magazine, Lamplighter Review, and for the Canadian Alzheimer's Association. Last year she had the honor of having her first play produced ("Stuck," September 2011), and her second play will be produced this Spring in the University of Alabama's Ten Minute Play Festival ("Elevator Play"). She also shares her personal story as a speaker in high school's, churches, and counseling classes. Her talks focus on healing from self-destructive behaviors such as self-mutilation and bulimia. She currently resides in the land of question marks swimming through them while wearing a cap that read Surrender.
Showing posts with label Amanda Gayle Oliver. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Amanda Gayle Oliver. Show all posts
Monday, January 30, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
The Sleepover
By Amanda Gayle Oliver
For Chaney Magnolia Hicks
I will never forget the night
I held your hand.
I believe it will always mean
more than any man's fingers,
that will clasp onto mine.
That one tear sliding down your
cheek, held more emotion than
your words.
Attempting to be so grown up.
I wonder what color hair you had
before it fell away.
And how many days after that
you refused to pray.
I was a few hours more than
a stranger when the nurse
asked me to hold your hand.
How hard you fought to resist,
how intensely you squeezed,
as both of our hands formed a fist.
Only eleven, they put you in this
ring alone to fight an enemy that
Punched you from the inside—out.
I wasn't there for a whole round
Only that one combination that
struck below the belt.
Too many turns, so many
cycles, poisoning a tiny frame.
I want the rounds you ride
to be on a carousel.
I want the spins you take to
be in a crown, a princess dress.
I want to wipe that tear away,
But I know better than to touch.
You will be tough and I will
be vulnerable—
So fragile you might break
my fingers.
It is what I can give, a
memory that lingers.
Previously published in Boston Literary Magazine, Fall 2010
For Chaney Magnolia Hicks
I will never forget the night
I held your hand.
I believe it will always mean
more than any man's fingers,
that will clasp onto mine.
That one tear sliding down your
cheek, held more emotion than
your words.
Attempting to be so grown up.
I wonder what color hair you had
before it fell away.
And how many days after that
you refused to pray.
I was a few hours more than
a stranger when the nurse
asked me to hold your hand.
How hard you fought to resist,
how intensely you squeezed,
as both of our hands formed a fist.
Only eleven, they put you in this
ring alone to fight an enemy that
Punched you from the inside—out.
I wasn't there for a whole round
Only that one combination that
struck below the belt.
Too many turns, so many
cycles, poisoning a tiny frame.
I want the rounds you ride
to be on a carousel.
I want the spins you take to
be in a crown, a princess dress.
I want to wipe that tear away,
But I know better than to touch.
You will be tough and I will
be vulnerable—
So fragile you might break
my fingers.
It is what I can give, a
memory that lingers.
Previously published in Boston Literary Magazine, Fall 2010
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