Poetry by Tina Posner
All I wanted were white go-go boots
to wear with my purple, crushed-velvet skirt
that laced up the front with a thin chain.
I was in love with the frugging teens
in Pop-Pop’s brief paint-by-numbers art.
The deep blue walls and blue carpet gave
my room an undersea hue, and I’d float
on my bedspread–a floral riot of violet
and red—daydreaming of girlfriends
who’d be more like sisters, teaching
me dance moves for boy-girl parties.
I’d unhinge the laminate desktop and
write out invitations, lift the heavy lid
of the vanity to reveal cheap jewelry,
bright shadows, and bubblegum gloss.
This is my future, I’d whisper to prints
of sad-eyed girls with sad-eyed cats,
listening to my heartthrob name new
feelings on my close-and-play.
Pot of Fire
Buffalo lake-effect snow dumped
a frozen flood waist-high. Sidewalk
glaciers refusing to recede until
long after spring break. Cold, dark
months puddled, warping the inlaid
parquet floors, soaking our socks,
and leaving chalk outlines of salt.
Looking for ways to kill time, one of us
suggested we make chicken wings.
Not me. I couldn’t imagine anything
more redundant than the town’s trademark
served in every restaurant, every bar.
And the bars were only outnumbered
by the churches. But half-crazed with
sky-gray boredom and bong hits,
we couldn’t agree on anything else.
Wings, flour, spices, all ready to fry.
But the oil in the pot combusted.
We saw the smoke, the fire, and froze.
I don’t know who broke the spell
first. Maybe it was VB, ever precise,
who noted the unsafe absence
of an extinguisher. Maybe it was K,
sober and shy, who pointed out
the obvious: It was a grease fire.
Since our pots had no lids, K soaked
a washcloth we kept in the kitchen
as a potholder. The fire swallowed it
whole. With only a shaker full of salt
to sprinkle, I improvised with flour.
The grateful flames whooshed
to the ceiling. VB noted accurately,
ex post facto, that flour is flammable.
Then the one we called Momma,
for her size, yelled that the gas stove
would blow, so we fled the kitchen,
waddling into the street, single-file
on a thin path carved in waist-high snow,
just as we were, in slippers, jacketless.
I half-dug and half-swam in a panic
to the neighbors’ door, my frozen fists
pounding, Call 911—big fire!!!
The orange dance in the windows
suggested utter destruction within.
VB, near tears, mourned her new
contact lenses, Momma her books,
me my poems. I don’t know what
K mourned—she never said.
Four fire trucks whined to the curb.
Brave souls in their fireproof gear
who dared to enter our humble inferno.
Then from out of the hot maw flew
the smoldering pot. Here’s your fire,
ladies, a gloved finger pointing
as it sank, hissing in the snow like
a witch undone by water. I argued
to keep the charred pot on the lawn—
its stink an ever-funny punchline;
like laughter trapped in amber.
I wonder if they ever tell this story
to their friends. I wonder why we,
once so close, drifted like snow.
My past is full of such numb spots,
and I can’t recall any reasons.
With no one to ask, I’ll never know
what happened to those raw wings.
