3 poems: summer by jaz papadopoulos
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Collage by: Mona Fani
summer.
summer
summer
summer
all the other girls
are bitches. they speak with fluency i don’t
understand. they have a secret
stash of ice cream. they giggle in the mornings, warm
their lips on the grass. i watch with awkward feet.
i am fraudulent, half-wrong, but i want to be good.
the men, though––the men are tall, dark
and haptic,
just like everyone said they would be.
i tell the girls i’ve been invited
to be a model but my feminist mother is ruining my life.
she writes No Barbies Please
on birthday invitations, wipes my Bubble Gum
Yum Yum on her sleeve. no lip colour,
no nail polish, no tv.
between bunk bed columns
beyond darkened cabin window
i see a blinking boy.
in our well-lit cabin, training bra’d tweens
squeal and cover-chest, dive onto beds
like sensually-fainting-girl cartoons.
he pants, wet mouthed
nearly dripping from the jowls. i stiffen.
something like electricity buzzes circles around me.
his eyes, shiny and concave like an old TV.
the background shows slender topless girls
mouths agape on beds. in the foreground, reflection of someone
who looks like me. in the ears, buzz buzz. i can’t decide
if the girls’ lips look more like cochineal or Jessica.
a neon-red scream flies like flames
licking glossy surface of the lake.
no one has ever named such a thing. we mistake it
for morning, lunch, evening bells.
after.
after, life is different. you are different.
you change yourself.
you begin with common parts––legs, underarms,
isthmus between eyebrows
used to be Very Hungry Caterpillar
now just anorexic. your great aunt’s moustache
terrifies you. your mother teaches you
to peel apples before eating them. you don’t understand
why, but the habit sticks. you peel everything, crave
bare flesh, pluck fuzz before pressing peach
to lips. the hunger grows, grazes knee pits,
toe knuckles, nape where mothers hang
kittens like cloaks. you go hunting
every night in your bedroom mirror.
catch your face, the birthmarks
as they jump, buzz, impishly rub
their little front legs. your eyes burn
from all the staring. without a doubt,
this is your true self. finally
all your fingers are bleeding.
found (1)
*This poem is an erasure of the CBC News article, "Jian Ghomeshi found not guilty on choking and all sex assault charges" written by Mark Gollom (Mar 24, 2016).
jaz papadopoulos is a queer first-gen/settler writer and multimedia artist, educator, and recent MFA graduate. They are a Lambda Literary Fellow, with work published in The Uniter, PRISM Magazine, VanDocument, and more. jaz is from Treaty 1 territory and currently resides on Coast Salish land. Follow them online here.
