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Hyatt, Annelie, For S.

HYATT, ANNELIE

Annelie Hyatt
Age: 17, Grade: 12

School Name: Beacon School, New York, NY
Educator: Amy Dupcak Remland

Category: Poetry

For S.

Reflections at Barnard
After Frank O’hara

Am I to be reborn in the shape of Virginia Woolf ? Or found dead in the courtyard?

As I enter the verdant quad I hear the echo of ambulances in the distance, the grotesque (and beautiful) face of New York distorting this would-be sanctuary. The girls here are draped in gingham trench coats and smudged mascara. Their hurried attitudes don’t let me forget there is a train station one street from here and homeless people outside. Don’t people

attend college to be immersed in an environment of disproportionate affluence? The lamps here beam as cantaloupes rot at the gates.
 
I confess, I regret most things in my life — the hot chocolate, for example, I bought for four dollars and the man I kissed the summer before high school. I regret my desires, most of all my desire for sincerity.  I regret this body which refuses to mature as fast as my mind, for the wilted breasts and stunted height. I regret

searching for a picture of young Bernie Sanders. I regret not being queer enough 
and being queer all the time. I confess, 

I don’t wear dresses and my ears aren’t pierced. I’m not particularly interested in Sexton or Plath or Austen. Some of my ancestors lived through the Cultural Revolution but I’m still a socialist. I’m learning French 

but don’t understand a word. I want the boy on the college green who kisses me on the forehead. I want to stumble into the darkness after a party, dreamy and colorful as someone helps me up the stairs. I want to say goodbye to all this: 

the bagels, the string of pearls, the eyelashes on my face as someone brushes them aside. When do I become immortal? When will I be old enough to feel young again? You are never where I am so I’ll go somewhere else this time, walk down to your house and maybe I’ll see you. I promise I don’t want to control 

us anymore. There is already so much pulling at our strings. I just hope some clarity can pool around us like rain.

For S. 
On a Bench

Roaming the avenues
toward the light
the blood of disaster 
bubbles behind my lips
and disfigures my speech

In the warm blue of night
you have already 
shed your mystery
bright eyes suddenly
adrift as you reach 
for your memories 

Because it’s about 
the light 
on your face 
as you turn to me
I’m suddenly 

compelled to
kiss you 
there is no right time
for my ardor 
and your diction,

not simple
and changing 
all the time

I suppose it was
beautiful our relationship
not perfect but good-
intentioned

until this moment
ruminating on our ashes
and our return in light
what serenity it is 
to rise from this daily chore 
of love and still feel 
infinite 

Our relationship
laid bare
finally scrutable