Peter Pan for President

 

I could have been standing there that day,

As our first African American President

Was ushered into office.

I would have been wrapping my coat about me-

Barring my pale white skin from the

Late January chill.

 

Barack Obama’s powerful words about

What our country is currently facing

And what America has to do-

How Americans can help pull through-

Would have fallen into my ears

And I would have felt proud.

 

I would have felt a glow-

Love of my country,

Love of my common people,

Adoration,

A hope.

But—I was not present at the inauguration.

 

Nor did I watch it-

I admit a small twinge of regret when I say this.

Nay, I did not park myself in front of the television

To hear sound waves that tell me

Obama spoke of hope

For our country.

 

No, at the time I was in bed,

Ill with a cold that took up my lungs.

Accompanied by balls of tissues,

I was reading

(As I always do when I am unwell)

Peter Pan.

 

There is something magic in those pages,

Something healing-

And it has never failed me.

The hope of childhood,

That innocence,

And overcoming all-

 

Why, in fact, I did attend the inauguration-

Did no one else see-

In the corner of the television-

Peter Pan cockily standing next to our new President

While Tinker Bell sprinkled pixie dust over the crowd?

Were the hopeful Americans present not flying?

======

Peppermints

 

They sit on our oak living room table,

Accompanied by coffee table books-

Philosophy in Knock-Knock Jokes and Amy Brown’s Fairies,

Movies in the Making and Monet’s Greatest Work-

And dried roses that once were a bouquet

Either my roommate or I received from a date gone bad-

We, to this day, can’t remember who the roses belong to.

 

We inherited the peppermints in early December

From one of our mothers in a care package-

And half of them got used to make Christmas cookies

That got eaten far too quickly

Or given away for cheaper Christmas gifts

For work acquaintances-

To show them we “care”.

 

The rest of the peppermints sit dejectedly on the front table-

Still resting in their green and red striped wrappers,

Melancholy in their peppermint

And spearmint flavouring.

Of course, I assume sadness about the unused candies-

But perhaps the peppermints rejoice!

 

How very easy it is, in my minds eye,

To see glad little sugary delights

Dancing in their plastic wrappers,

Making crinkly music

That only they can hear-

A fiesta of survival,

A party of life!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Orlando’s dead, I thought

As my little sister and I, crammed in the backseat

Got driven around by our parents

And a realtor named Ellie-

Who had white hair, dentures

And a sweet Southern smile.

 

Ellie passed away a year after we moved,

And Orlando is still as dead as she is-

Despite living there for a fourth of my twenty years.

My Californian heart misses winding roads,

Rolling hills, jammed highways,

And the diversity of beachdesertforestmountain.

 

But as dead as Orlando is, it pulls the intermittent Lazarus-

Rising to the occasion every night I spend

Piled in the back of three different cars-

A beat up Oldsmobile, a souped up Sunfire,

Or an air freshened Toyota. We drive off-

A cloud of smoke, rebellion, and youth.

 

My boys and I- we are necromancers-

We take the deceased Orlando and make it ours

On those eternal summer nights- when they

Smoke too much, I laugh too much,

When we revel too much in our

Own freedom and power.

 

Our kingdoms are those of the night-

Orlando’s a vampire. We own Meridian-

A hookah lounge that smells of summer

And fruit. We have the pier- a small boat dock

Populated by stars, alligators, and mosquitoes.

~But the last place we own~

 

~Is our driveways

They smoke, I laugh, they dance

He and I kiss~

 

We are the Necromancers of Orlando.