It was the year of the red turtles.
It was the year of the crashing moon.
Like a phantom cosmonaut,
the moon ricocheted into
vacant hemispheres.
In the dark children flew kites,
cheering as the jolts of light
cruised down swings and slides.
No one cared that the children
might disappear into an air
as dry as saltines. Everyone
was afraid they’d forget to feed the turtles.
The Russian almanac declared them the pet en vogue,
the pet du jour. So rare and divine,
you could shake them like magic eight balls.
A black market for them thrived.
Haven’t you seen those faded tattoos?
It was the year of renaming--
Our father taught us endangered languages
that stuck like pennies in the throat.
My best friend sailed a paper airplane
through the wisteria montage of my window
at night with the blood type of the boy
she’d love the next day.
It was the year teenagers were found circling
on rooftops trying to suck in the sky
like Whip-Its only to find their knees
were tar-stained and their mouths tasted like clouds.
Rebecca Watkins has an MFA in Poetry. She has taught literature, writing and English as a Second Language at the college level for over six years and has created and lead poetry workshops for all age groups. She has been published in The Promethean, The Red Mesa Review, SN Review, and Poetry and Performance among other literary journals. More of Rebecca’s poetry can be found at www.rebeccawatkinspoetry.com.
It was the year of the crashing moon.
Like a phantom cosmonaut,
the moon ricocheted into
vacant hemispheres.
In the dark children flew kites,
cheering as the jolts of light
cruised down swings and slides.
No one cared that the children
might disappear into an air
as dry as saltines. Everyone
was afraid they’d forget to feed the turtles.
The Russian almanac declared them the pet en vogue,
the pet du jour. So rare and divine,
you could shake them like magic eight balls.
A black market for them thrived.
Haven’t you seen those faded tattoos?
It was the year of renaming--
Our father taught us endangered languages
that stuck like pennies in the throat.
My best friend sailed a paper airplane
through the wisteria montage of my window
at night with the blood type of the boy
she’d love the next day.
It was the year teenagers were found circling
on rooftops trying to suck in the sky
like Whip-Its only to find their knees
were tar-stained and their mouths tasted like clouds.
Rebecca Watkins has an MFA in Poetry. She has taught literature, writing and English as a Second Language at the college level for over six years and has created and lead poetry workshops for all age groups. She has been published in The Promethean, The Red Mesa Review, SN Review, and Poetry and Performance among other literary journals. More of Rebecca’s poetry can be found at www.rebeccawatkinspoetry.com.
