Poetry, Ava J. Camargo
I appeared.
(once finished raiding
my mother’s strength)
6 pounds 1 ounce of
buccaneering readiness,
purple with nonsensical sounds.
I think I was born with
all the words I use now -
wanted to speak them
when I arrived but
couldn’t move my tongue
the right way to say
“ ”,
I’m contemplating living ,
or “thank you”.
no one could believe
I was so small, looked
so gentle, so cold.
one had to squint to see
my features, like trying to
pinpoint a singular
speck of snow.
if it weren’t for that
red birthmark on my nose,
I would’ve
disappeared
in the blankets I laid upon.
My mother called me
Surprise and my father
called me Accident,
either way I could not
be easily retracted.
I was a happy baby.
The happiest baby -
(learned how to put on
a show from an early age)
My love for pretending
started then: I ed
pretend
to like applesauce and
my sister and tinkerbell green
and cheerios and our cat
Junior and my highchair
(afraid of heights).
But did I really like
a few things: the beach,
the TV, french toast,
holding hands, and Oobie.
I wasn’t hard to impress,
it was no one
wanted to try after doing
it with two kids before me
(nothing new).
waited Everyone,
until the winter was over to
meet , so I didn’t hold me,
too many people’s hands
(except my mom’s).
My first winter was lonely,
me and the snow
didn’t get along
(we
were too much alike).
in the cold I grew cold.
with a smile on my face,
the cold was warm
Ava J. Camargo is a poet and graduate student from New Jersey. Her work is forthcoming in the Allegheny Review.
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