We look at a distant light 

With hope for self discovery 

fear of catastrophe, 

and self-inflicted wounds 

We dig through the mountain

in order to escape 

Eclipsing, 

suffocating our souls

When I rewind the tangled film of that year to replay again,

the transcript hitches, a tainted roll of chromatography paper,

taken out from the closet a few too many times;

when I carefully crop it to the segment in question,

9:45.  My heart begins to race. I unconsciously cross my legs on top of one another with my foot anxiously bouncing up and down, my leggings making a soft swishing sound from the friction of them rubbing together. My teacher drones on and on and on about poetry. Normally, I’d be interested.

I was born at the wrong place

At the wrong time

Both my parents seeking a better life

For my sister and I

To find comfort across the border

Where movie stars and country folk

Looked deceivingly happy

Pay attention to the road.

The soft mantra fills my head as the dark pouring rain pelts the windshield. The wipers beat relentlessly, expelling as much water as they can while more continues to fall.

Pay attention to the road.

Why do they keep praying

If nothing has changed

Hi my name is Ayiana

Once upon a time,

I was a young girl

Seeing the world through rose colored glasses

my mother sobbed to herself at the kitchen table

Wondering why

Crying tears that would not relinquish 

Madeline.

The first name I was ever given

A symbol of my mother’s overbearing need to go her way or no way

Her way had no meaning

It was simply a name she thought was pretty

It’s hard to understand what

to feel when his words say

he loves me but the tone of

his voice says the only thing

he cares about is himself.

Scars stain his back

and my wrists

but the only real scars are

As our war rages on, I’m caught in a crossfire.

One side shrieks its anthem of misguided hope.

The other, facing reality’s certain dread head on.

While I, a teenager caught in the midst of battle, seek refuge.

I was sitting in my private school, around age 8

The religion teacher said, everyone sit in a circle

Don’t speak

Close your eyes

Raise your hand when you hear God speaking to you

One by one each child raised their hand

I sat

heavy named girl, 

Your value is that of the anchor tied to your feet, the depth of your mother’s tongue when she looked upon you,

saw your grandmother’s eyes in your soft brown face and

“Ma, it’s morning. It’s time to get up.”

A big city.

Different people,

Modern architecture,

A whole world to explore.

It’s late.

I’m not asleep, though. I won’t fall asleep for awhile.

I have so many secrets to tell you through soft poems and open mouthed kisses on rosy flushed cheeks of best friends turned lovers and onto mothers and peaches bought from roadside shacks on small town access roads; toothy grins slyly hanging onto our faces —  

I sit 

in a green plastic booth

Sandwiched between a purple table 

and a streaky orange wall

I keep my fingers squished into my ears 

while I watch a librarian chase a girl my age around 

The way they teach poetry in schools

Is not the only way it can be written

               Structured stanzas

             and 

  parallel pantoums

(A palindrome poem meant to be read top to bottom,and then bottom to top)