The room was cloudy with smoke, making it difficult to breathe. You all sat on the floor crooning, “girls just wanna have fun.” There was a collective outburst of laughter, fueled by the pot. Brian sat across from you and periodically passed you a joint, winking as he did. You could feel that wink, like a tsunami, waves of heat hitting you in the most unlikely of places.  You’d only stopped carrying his eighth-grade picture in your backpack a few months ago, and here he was staring at you through the smokey haze. You had pulled your T-shirt down and wondered where those breasts had come from, seemingly overnight. All that was left over from that religious youth group was the belief that if God didn’t want you to have sex at 17 he wouldn’t have given you this body. Music thrummed, a deep base. You clicked your tongue ring against your teeth to the beat. You looked over at Brian and winked back.
 

Staring in the mirror in your college dorm, you adjusted your black turtleneck and swore off make-up… it was made mostly of animal products after all. You were late for the meeting of the literary club where you were due to read from a collection of poems. You had been surprised that those poems resulted in your being named poet of the year at the college. Brian had said, “Come on Trish you so deserve that honor, you’re the best writer.” It sounded like the lines for his role in a play.

You were the first of your group to organize marches for the environment. You had a feeling of false confidence as you addressed a crowd at the student union, your microphone serving as a shield that prevented the audience from seeing who really stood in front of them.

You were the first to write purposefully controversial articles about the academic hierarchy, articles that landed on the front page of the school newspaper, signed with a pen name. There became a wider and wider chasm between who you appeared to be and who you really were.

You were the first of your class to drop out of college, doing so because you couldn’t remember how to breathe. You couldn’t stop crying.
 

I still feel remnants of my former selves, Patti and Trixie and Trish, who led me from adolescence into adulthood.

The tea at my side is growing cold. The open book in my lap lays unread. A single teardrop marks the page. From my chair I look out the window into the backyard where the autumn light slants through the trees. The changing leaves remind me of my own evolution from the girl I was to the woman I am. The green leaves of the summer are now a kaleidoscope of browns, yellows, scarlets and oranges. They seem to be dancing to the ground with their invisible partner, the wind. Dancing to a choreography that is as unpredictable as it is inviting.

I sweep a stray hair back from my face and into my ponytail. Reaching for my teacup I see the glass jar with the black top, still filled with air, still a reminder to breathe.  A talisman. My last child is off now, living independently. That’s what I wanted, of course it is. I wonder how I will reinvent myself in this season in my life. I place my finger in my mouth and feel the hole where my tongue ring once rested. I can still perceive a faint passage of air through the gap that remains.

All of you are always with me, young girls brave enough to experiment with who they were and who they wanted to be. I call upon you now.  I want to wrap my arms around you, to comfort you and listen to you, to laugh, cry, and delight in you. I want to thank you.

Eggphrasis

A new collection of poems by Ronnie Hess. Artwork by Mary Sprague.

“Ronnie Hess’s Eggphrasis is a mix of astute and sympathetic observations about her backyard chickens and encounters with wild species, interwoven with her perspectives on life. Her poetry is by turns amusing and poignant, while providing insight into the birds she writes about.” — Anna Pidgeon, Beers-Bascom Professor of Conservation, Department of Forest and Wildlife Ecology, University of Wisconsin-Madison “Throughout this collection, birds are a delight, a cause for concern, a flock, unique individuals, worthy of attention in and of themselves and for what they sometimes suggest about us humans. These insightful poems present for our regard the narrow and the wide earth and all who find a place here to fly, to walk, to write, and to practice their art.” — Margaret Rozga, author of Holding My Selves Together: New & Selected Poems, and 2019-2020 Wisconsin Poet Laureate Available from the author, Amazon, or your independent bookstore.

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