Something in the way you people smell, like you've got no soul at all.

I wrote a revision about one of my poems on this blog from two years ago for my creative writing class, and it brought my professor to tears.

The Process (3/9/09)

“Baby fat doesn’t smell like adult fat.”
You would expect it to be easier to autopsy an adult
than a child. We flip the tiny cadaver’s scalp up,
and then I can pretend I am dissecting a cat, AP-bio style.

You don’t need the bone saw on children.
Using the scalpel, we cut the cartilaginous ribs one-by-one,
and easily remove the breastplate.
The organs are miniature, and even cute.

I’ve never seen a heart so small and so precious.
I only think it’s sad that it will never see CAD.
I wonder what this child could have done or seen
with its life, now wasted by asphyxiation.

Forever Young

I need to write about
entering the gates
my best friend’s blonde hair blowing into my face
cool summer breeze
the happy screams from the swimming pool
the feel of jumping into the chlorinated water feet first
adult swim—how I should just get out
taking a break with all the kids

the water dripping off my bathing suit
the sun starts to evaporate me
my body, it feels much colder now
sitting under the umbrella
moving my blanket from the shadows, nearer to Kate
how summer should never end