• NSPP 2019

    NSPP 2019

    Oklahoma Sky                        
                                        
    In Oklahoma, the sky is vast 
    and all we have, forming the landscapes
    we lack; the morning 
    golden beaches,
    by evening growling mountains whose peaks
    are climbed by the red flashing lights
    of planes flying overhead.

    In Oklahoma, the sky is sheer fabric
    stretched across rumpled mattress, 
    puckered with hay bales in the summer
    and punctured with crosses atop churches,

    torture glowing gold like some hipster
    outdoor market lighting
    partially funded by my grandparents
    who invite us to Life Church
    and say that we are the exception to 
    amoral atheists.

    In Oklahoma God is painted into the sky 
    because it is the only place big enough to fit
    Him, and He is always sketched white
    even though the clouds are folded in 
    purples and pinks I drown in 
    and even green as yellow fades into blue,
    the grass reflecting upwards.

    Future

    We describe fog as heavy. It
    may just be the

    lightest thing. Gauze 
    dress imprints ethereal 

    beings in the haze, myself and
    myself and myself.

    The truth is any of them, all
    of them. They see each other

    which is dangerous. They know
    other truths which halt

    any truth until the boolean ‘true’
    is as useless and motionless

    as the fog in which it suspends.
    A sea of fantasy, not even that,

    make-believe, myself and myself,
    back playing house with plastic food, 

    myself driving aimlessly into
    its thick with my brights on.

    Birds

    The birds are permanent
    marker. I don’t notice
    the telephone wires until they
    slash them through, [REDACT] them. 
    How silence becomes louder than
    noise—black covers
    black becomes
    vibrant neon. Do the birds know
    what thrums beneath their
    claws? Can they hear the drunken
    laughter and mundane gossip
    and sobs and 
    reminders to ‘call your mother,
    it’s her birthday tomorrow?’
    The birds alight as one, smoke into
    the deepening evening sky. Who makes
    that call? Where are their
    telephone wires?

    The Chihuly Exhibit in the Oklahoma City Museum of Art

    Cherubs hide above behind
    glass dripping down in multiplicity, contained by
    the illusion of invisibility—but not
    contained. The glass stains
    our skin. Our necks crane to 
    find the cherubs. 

    Imagine it all shattered by sonic
    booms, also imported from Seattle. Though
    I suppose we have our own earthquakes
    now to do the job. 

    Glass is not color. Mix
    three primaries and get
    that brown which encompasses 
    and get
    egg only when there is no pigment to break. 
    Glass isn’t color. Glass is 
    chemistry. Glass is
    steel. Glass is a blacksmith and a sword
    stretched like taffy to a point twice as sharp.
    White linen is made up of every thread and
    black is the shadow of nothing, except—

    black is not lack, 
    in this room. Black is 
    water; black is 
    everything, shouting
    back warped, 
    or perhaps purer,

    decrypted. Purple reeds are not purple in sunlight,
    they’re blue. Purple was never
    really purple. Light isn’t color
    but oceans—tiny tsunamis flooding
    the crevices of sculpted tissue in waves. 
    Light is perception. Light is the shape
    of          . Light is just cherubs, hidden
    behind glass desperately trying to obey
    the laws of gravity.
     
    Dear Earth

    I would fall to my knees
    and beg your forgiveness—water
    your dirt with my tears if
    you wouldn’t split the ground beneath me 
    for my hypocrisy. 

    I eat the meat of your children, carved
    in factories that strangle your lungs;
    the combustion of gasoline compounded from the life
    of my ancient forefathers and drawn 
    from your guts feeds my convenience. Maybe

    I could become one of those women
    who make their wombs barren
    in solidarity with you. But

    even then—just another manifestation
    of selfishness, how much it would hurt
    to bring life into your hands as they crumble
    in the wind. Giving birth in a burning
    building while half of the firefighters
    shout that there is no fire and light
    cigarettes with the flames. Can

    you forgive me my greed? Or is 
    that yet another self-serving 
    act, asking you to soothe my sunburnt
    guilt with gentle palms, spread

    aloe vera along my reddened shoulders? I
    taste the unsustainability in  
    the shampoo 
    as I rinse my chlorine-soaked hair
    in hot water.
     
     




    Aviophobia, In My Neighborhood Wal-Mart, God is Your Mother Who Creates Miniatures
     
    Aviophobia
        inspired by the Congressional hearing of Christine Blasey Ford

    In a room smaller than
    it seems spread thin across screens
    streaming around the nation
    and 27 years since last,
    they ask about the fear of flying.
    A pressurized metal tube traveling impossibly
    at 20,000 feet at 500 miles per hour, sipping
    Diet Coke and working your jaw
    to pop your ears. Reasonable to be
    scared of flight—well, reasonable to
    be scared of falling. But if you are scared of
    falling,
    why two doors in your home
    why not say something sooner
    why not say something then

    why can’t you remember how you got there
    back
    why doesn’t he/she
        a calendar
            remember
          
     he was seventeen and now
    it’s a case of
    he said, she screamed
        
    and the music was turned up louder

    how are you here today?
    You must not be afraid of falling.

    (Thank you for taking the plunge.)

    In My Neighborhood Wal-Mart

    I find some of the most
    optimistic
    places in the world to be
    the missing persons boards
    in Wal-Marts.
    How much hope they have—
    that a casual shopper
        a harried mother in sweatpants
        and a bedlam T-shirt, two and a half
        children hanging from her forearms
        as she pushes a cloud of dreamy plastic bags
        soft swaths of white cushioning toilet paper
        laundry detergent and Lunchables
    will glance at the image, think, “oh,
    yes, I have seen that face; I avoided eye
    contact with it at the liquor store last Friday.”

    One image stands out in black and white,
    red stating ONLY PHOTO AVAILABLE
    at the lower margin of the young woman’s stern
    face, smudged by low quality. Her eyes
    not quite focused, looking at something past
    the camera, perhaps at the beginning of the eighties, of
    her life,
    when she went missing. And
    in the upper right corner, digitally produced,
    a photo of what she would look like now, in sharper image
    than her existence: older,
        chunkier, hair short and shot through with
        gentle blonde highlights, lines from age and smiling—
    the photo of a woman who went missing
    and proceeded to live life, have a family,
    gain enough years to gain the hairstyle middle
    aged women seem to inevitably choose.
        
    How optimistic to will her into the present with an image
    like a photo from the teachers’ page of a yearbook.
        How optimistic to not, instead, write AGE PROGRESSED
        over a picture of leaves and dirt
        and bones.

    God is Your Mother Who Creates Miniatures

    when you peek around the corner
    she is working on planets in a galaxy
    spread across rough-hewn wood,
    “The Milky Way”.

    you wonder if the name was stripped
    from chocolate wrappers strewn about the floor
    wonder about the legalities—
    if the name falls under fair use if
    she won’t make money off of it
    but others will because, well,
    televangelists.

    a pinprick is visible between the thumb
    and pointer finger of her right
    hand, her left dusting it with sugar-fine
    ice and you half expect her to

    swallow it whole

    instead she extends
    and places the pinprick far from the warmth
    of her

    chest. the ring on her finger knocks
    “earth” slightly on its axis.

    she doesn’t notice or she doesn’t care,
    or maybe it was intentional,
    or maybe it was an accident and she’ll say it was intentional,
    you never can tell with her.

    you like “earth”.

    she let you hold it once;
    its water tickled your fingertips, dampened
    the land as your thumb skimmed it, the crevices
    of your skin stenciling mud.

    you felt the growth of lifelines across
    its palm, holding hands
    with the swells of mountains until

    a sudden prick on your finger pulled crimson
    puddling between knuckles;
    you sucked the blood,
    iron and steel kissing your tongue.
    “why did you add a needle to earth?”

    soft smile, never breaking her staring contest with jupiter.
    “i didn’t.”

    she hunches when she works,
    completely negating the expensive
    chair designed to provide
    good lumbar support.
    she complains
    even though it's her fault:

    “it’s the devil”
    she says
    as she stretches her spine
    like a serpent.
    Julie Dawkins

    Julie Dawkins
    Grade: 11

    Educator(s):

    Awards: Poetry
    2019 National Student Poet

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