Poetry Reading at Eleanor's Norfolk MFA Reading Series

On April 26th, I was invited by the MFA program at Old Dominion University to share a collection of poems at the MFA Reading Series at Eleanor's Norfolk: Book and Bottle Shop. I was joined by 4 other undergraduate creative writers in sharing original prose or poetry as a precursor to the graduate readings. I am humbled to say that I was specifically recommended to participate in this event by Dr. Luisa A. Igloria, the 20th Poet Laureate of Virginia.

As well, I was absolutely honored to have my best friend, Dana Chesser, introduce me during the event. She is an incredible supporter of the poetry and prose that I write, and it was extremely special to have her there as I presented the poem "Untitled" that she chose to publish in her magazine, LVDR.

Below you can find a few photos from the event. As well, for your convenience, I have included the poems I presented.

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Love Forgiven*

Another day,

Another fight,

Another apology that shouldn’t have been mine.

Another day with Cupid’s arrow

Skewered between abuser and abused

And not a soul or spirit or goddess up above

Coming down to right the wrong.

Because Cupid is a momma’s boy

Who knows just how to atone.

You’ll draw him close, Mother Love,

When he tumbles into your lap--

Quicker than the asp,

Little curls in your grasp.

You’ll grin, Mother Love,

When baby fingers turn pedestal for chin--

Puckered lips to cheek,

Gestures so syrupy sweet--

You’ll ignore that they’re contrived.

He’ll never admit that he’s done wrong.

Inside him is a man who knows he’ll always be forgiven:

That no arrow freed in impulse can take a mother’s favor

Because a love forgiven is a love longer kept.

Every night, I hold a man who knows he’ll always be forgiven:

That no word spoken in malice will convince me not to stay

Because a word forgiven is a love longer kept.

*Ekphrastic poem inspired by and written in response to Prosper d'Epinay’s sculpture titled, “Amor Forgiven”

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Untitled

i take pictures to remember while you

climb bayside trees. my mouth wants to beg “hang

down and let me kiss you” but there’s no need.

my legs already lead me forward, your

head already turned downward toward the sand—

your lips beckoning “come kiss me, come kiss

me” like that one scene in that movie. feel

the laughter press between our lips and melt

into our breath. we become little girls

again. you make me feel so good. so good

that i feel free—brave enough to do and

be anything with you. for you. like drink

coconut milk, watch scary movies and

like it; kiss you out in public, forget

that people can see; wear pretty black dresses,

make friends along the way; lick ice cream off

your salty palm, drip drip, lay my head upon

your knees; knock into each other at the

roller rink, give bad advice; argue with

friends but always come back, come back, come back;

hang around the art room, sneak into the

studio; paint together, paint to get

her, paint my body please. let me perform

for you. i am your creation, your muse.

i remember laying down that night in

your passenger seat, your body stretched across

the center console to lay above mine.

i remember how deliciously your

face was illuminated by the neon

red spilling off the awning of the shops

we’d parked beside. i remember how i

could’ve asked to devour you in the backseat

we had ignored. but all i could do was

admire how beautiful you were that night

looking down on me looking up at you.

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A Brief History of My Toes

When I was born, you knew I was my father’s daughter by the look of my toes. They were his

inheritance to me—along with poor eyesight in the third grade, the absolute necessity to always

be on time, and a couple of crooked teeth. My toes have a look about them that says I’d know

those toes anywhere, yet in an inoffensive way. Larger on top with an elegant curve between

each joint and a little tuft of hair. Sort of masculine looking for a girl? Thankfully the tuft is

blonde and fine and totally definitely absolutely not growing more and more noticeable every

year.

As a kid, I used to splay my toes when I was bored—each digit a baby bean sprout desperately

pushing past the confines of where my mother rooted them. When not squashed into their little

garden beds, I indulged in the sight of each toe sliding up and out into the atmosphere, kissing

little air particles previously out of reach. The splay always curled downward, arching up and

over to let my pinky toe kiss the ground and my big toe reach for the sun.

My pediatrician once caught me doing this little routine during an annual checkup—or what my

mother still calls a well baby—and was bewildered by the fact that I could. His face had a look

about it that said I delivered you from the womb, I’d know those toes anywhere and yet he balked at the sight before him.

“How do you do that, that thing with your toes?”

“I don’t know. I just always have.”