A collection of poems, dedicated to a deck of cards brought to America by my mother when she immigrated from Communist Czechoslovakia at age nine. For every card drawn from the deck, a poem coincides accompanied to capture an angle of youth and adolescent from the view of my eyes. In an attempt to embody the confusion of girlhood, identity, and the first generation experience.
Cherry Tree
Mother Tongue,
do I only think of you
when i fall asleep
the lies I told myself about you
that I could never have you
There wasn’t enough of you in me
I wasn’t really
multilingual
I can’t really
understand
the softness of the
summer light
on the bridge of
her nose,
old cherry bark,
the pear tree
chopped down last summer
mother tongue
I was born,
with you etched into my veins
the cuts in the old cherry tree;
it blooms every summer
but only for a little bit,
or just enough,
When everyone wants
to pick them,
we just laugh
‘go ahead’
because we don’t want
them to rot
sticky red fingers
old faded clothing stains,
they could never wash out
they picked at Oma’s old cherry tree
until nothing was left
mother tongue,
if there’s so much of
you,
why is there so little for me?
why do you fade
every winter
almost hiding in a cave,
hibernating
why do you choose to go away?
maybe i just didn’t work
hard enough,
to regress your slow lonely fade,
but I promised myself to make you stay
what the old cherry tree,
falls down,
no longer cherry juice,
but blood on my hands
what if the old cherry tree falls down,
will you too go away?
Sticky summer,
every year since 08’
that I subconsciously
tried to make you stay,
plane flight
take you home,
grasping you with
my sticky fingers
Cent
My life is measured in increments
of summers,
of school years passed bye,
continents and barriers,
and yet;
It’s slipping through my fingers again,
I grew an inch,
a centimeter,
its slipping through my fingers again,
because I didn’t even take a breath,
and it’s spring again
I complained about sweaters
now i don’t have blouses to wear
again,
and I tell myself that
I don’t hate the fall,
I only miss it when it’s over,
and it’s over,
it’s the monotony
because seasons cycle,
Older like the old sycamore
tree that sheds its leaves
every autumn
And then it,
grows out again
//2
I’ve done it all,
I cut my hair,
I grew it out again,
I’ve been beautiful and disgusting
and ive
felt like an adult
but also as such a child,
I’ve broken my pencil
lead
a
thousand times
trying to describe the feeling
like i’m floating-
maybe?
or also I’m looking
at my life through a looking
glass but it’s not mine?
will I create art or,
will my cold hard body
get buried into the
earth,
with no thoughts
exiting my brain
into paper?
Refuge
Better,
that’s what everyone uses
better,
a better life,
better opportunities,
just better
ok so,
they,
it;
suffocated them,
until they couldn’t breath,
until every movement
was monitored,
every liberty forbidden,
they wanted better,
the coal mines that chalked up
his lungs
God that couldn’t be real if you wanted,
so maybe a suitcase,
a deck of cards,
and you’ve set yourself
out for the grimy streets
of San Francisco
where the weather is never good
(almost)
but maybe you like it,
so its
all
just finefinefine
and maybe that’s ok.
yes,
count every penny,
don’t slip up,
state your value,
like a coin on the market,
because they’ll try to take you
into their grimy hands,
30 years, thirty!
better, better, better,
but you still miss
it
Because the summers in San Francisco
don’t make your clothes
cling to your body with sweat,
and yeah
you always liked the metric system better,
that’s not what you really miss,
because you can’t even be in the
same time zone
Diluted
I looked out onto my face,
examining every inch
wondering what was wrong,
what was there to fix,
smudge more makeup
on my eyes
it didn’t look better,
took my hair down,
put it back up,
maybe I shouldn’t have cut it
last September
when I just wanted
to know
what it felt
like
I step away from the
mirror,
until I am as far away as
I can get
until my eyes are
black welts stitched
onto my face
maybe I look
better from far away,
is this how they see me?
but then I close my eyes
and
remember,
that I’ll always
have my father’s
eyes diluted with
my mother’s
the bump on my nose
from my grandmother
if there’s nothing wrong,
With them,
then what happened to me?
Fleet
It weighs down on me,
Settle’s against my shoulders,
shoving the blades into each other,
until my bones grate against each other
Dissolving into fine dust,
equivalent to stars in the sky,
it’s fleeting, isn’t it?
One day I’ll no longer
know,
them
I’ll wait for one to die,
lines will continue to etch in
our faces,
my body will change
and scars will stretch
my life stretches before my
fingertips,
youth just a blimp
in my timeline,
everyone is just a tiny,
speck in my
life.
Continent
Sunset or sunrise,
sometimes I don’t even
think about them,
almost
they don’t exist,
only when mentioned,
they pollute my mind
they are characters in my head,
nine hours,
between the continents and the sea
I remember when I didn’t think
about it
when I was little
maybe free
nine hours,
I wake up and you
go to sleep
tell me about
well-
anything
tell me about your day,
because mine hasn’t even happened yet
Ocean
I watch it as I think about it all
The hums of the waves drowning out
Their silent screams
Spanning across centries
They crash and collide;
Evening out again
Smooth
How they were before
Their perfect normal
Encased in pearlescent foam
Returning to the basin of water
That cut ties to once home
Ellis island
And a plane in ’78
Sometimes I look and
Wonder
Into it all
Moře
Chcete vědět
Pro nesnáším moře?
Vy nevíte jaké to je,
America není krásná jak v fotkách
Co vám posílám
Dívám se na moře
Bo ví ste na druhé straně
To co milujete
Nás odděluje;
Vdit ti nesnášíš vítr
A slané vlasy v na rtech,
a já
Furt jsi je rukama třu
Prič
Ale jo,
Nakonec je to tak krásně
že člověk ani nepochopí jak
Je to možné
Ale proč vlastně se tomu věnovat
Když to nic nezmění?
Ano,
Nekdy
Zapomenu dýchat
V tvých modých oči
Je to
Opravdu
Fact,
Krásné
Grandma’s Jeans/ Grandpa’s Jacket
Grandma’s jeans,
Did you hate the pocket size?
did you rip the seams,
and sew them up again?
I did,
I ripped the seams,
and sewed them up again
but differently then you did,
decades ago
Grandpa’s jacket,
Traveled across state lines,
flew across the pacific,
Everything that happens with time,
worn and the sleeves,
but still navy blue,
color of the flag(s)
of what he called home,
But it wasn’t
Sunday
It’s a little chilly,
and a fly is perched
on the bench I sit
on and the
sun is setting
but they pushed
time back an hour
in attempt to play
God,
and my hair doesn’t
brush my shoulders
because i pinned it up-
and the wind swishes
past my bare legs
like metallic
silver fish in a pond I once
saw
and
the fog rolls over
the hill with the
blue house as I’ve
seen multiple times
before
just in different
times,
seasons,
when my hair was longer
maybe
last year too
That “kolibřík”
(because i don’t know how
to say it in English)
sings a little
too loud its
restless tone
should dull out
with the fountain water
and maybe I should
leave with that old
man sitting next to
me,
but i knew if I was
a boy
I’d probably make
conversation and smile,
but instead I grip my
pen by the neck
with a chokehold,
but i know
gel ink never shatters,
and my heels
and feet burn like dying
coals but in a soothing
way of walking
and the “kolibřík”
is still singing
and the fountain never
stops
wind strokes my
hair, tempting it
to fall out
stand by strand
out of its style
the sun slowly
sets behind this
beautiful San Francisco
yet it illuminates
my page as if
begging me not
to leave,
but the wind
tugs me towards
home,
up the hill
