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Jiménez, Anya, Sugar and Longing


Anya Jiménez
Age: 15, Grade: 10

School Name: Professional Perform Arts High School, New York, NY
Educator: Ashley Kurasz

Category: Poetry

Sugar and Longing

Bassoon I like the way my name sounds in your voice
In between the “n” and the “y” there’s a warmth that you’ve made
I could live in that smile
We could build a home there
There, in between everything, we could live
We’ll have a front yard 
Inside a moment or 
or a picture 
or something we haven’t yet found –
That’s where our mailbox will be
And it’s the color of your eyes 
or maybe your hair
Or the color of your voice
A bassoon, low and gentle
And warm
And in between the “n” and the “y” we’ll have two bedrooms, 
one for us
One for a violin
And the windows will be beautiful

I want to get lost inside your laugh
I do get lost inside your laugh

I will lose myself again and again

Come find me
Take me home
  Two Dancers What are they thinking?
Their footsteps in sync,
their hands in their pockets,
their cheeks tinted pink.

I watch as they power 
through 50th street,
their minds moving faster 
than cars or their feet.

And what are they doing
inside of their heads?
what the other one said?

And where are they going?
To bed or to home?
Watch how they move
set to one metronome.

Are they going for coffee
adorned with a sleeve
he’s bound to rip up?
Like he’s bound to leave?

And neither one speaks.
Yet both of them try
to conjure up something
that isn’t “goodbye.”

Or maybe their silence
is knitted with words
of sugar and longing
and colorful birds.

Their hips sway in time
to the rhythm they’ve set.
A rhythm they follow
and never forget.

Now they’re turning the corner
to ninth avenue
and everyone watching
thinks “what will they do?”

Their hands in their pockets,
their cheeks turning pink,
there go the dancers,
their footsteps in sync. Clouds Tonight,
The cotton ball clouds have stretched themselves thin 
they’ve dreamed of making their way around the world
they’ve been holding onto something I can’t see.
But tonight,
they’ll find the stars I think.
After the dusky orange 
and the smokey pink 
and the bluish black,
the stars and the moon and the hot molasses air
will tuck them in for the night.
And with a kiss on the forehead,
away they’ll go.

What do you see in them?
What do you see?

He says, for the clouds to hear,
he doesn’t look for shapes.
No, and the clouds listen.
He says he looks for colors.
So I drown my eyes in cotton balls 
and wait.

And with the way the light tints his skin
I can’t help but wonder
What are the colors he sees in me?