Cherry Red at Twenty One by marijanefasana

POEMS BY MARIJANE FASANA

CHERRY RED AT TWENTY ONE

Thank you to my Mother and Father, who always told me to write. Â

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ON THE COLLECTION Colorful emotion is what comes to mind after reading Marijane Fasana’s “Cherry Red at Twenty One.” It felt as if I was looking into a young life filled with love, resentment, and questions. Readers might notice how modern, raw, and relatable her words are, unabashed and bare for all to read. Every color, a personality and story. Love in bloom and love with a bit of sadness. Her ability to give readers a taste of reimagined childhood and the awkward beginnings of pubescence is startling and familiar. This collection of poetry felt similar to an EP of a true musician expressing their craft—except her words are the lyrics, and the colors are the melody. Original work like this is the kind you hang up on the walls of an art museum, allowing passers-by to come to their own conclusion of its meaning. In the end it is somehow the same as others: beautifully exposed poetry from a young mind. Readers won’t be disappointed with her innovative way with words and bursts of color. Enjoy! -Cameron Bascombe

The Five Times She Was Born 1. Babies cry strange sometimes. She was one of them. Her mother told the nurse how odd that new Baby sounded. And the nurse said, “That baby is yours! She has a head of dark hair And she is healthy. She is alone In the nursery.” 2. She saw a boy sitting on a bench alone When she was very young. He was bigger than her, But he looked so small. His face, his eyes, his shoulders— they were all sad. “He must have no family! Or he wouldn’t be sad.” She begged her parents to bring him home with them, But her mother grabbed her hand and dragged her away. The boy was left alone on the park bench. 3. She was alone in a dark hall, All chained up and stuck. But here comes a savior, She already knew his name. He is warm and bursting with gold. His skin and his hair are dark like hers. He has strong arms that break bonds And a face she loved dearly. At least for a while. 4. She hates molecules and bones. They are strong, unforgiving, and never Open to interpretation. So she left and forgot the bones and nerve endings She memorized and replaced them with an eye For words and all the ways she can describe A nude body laying alone on a bed And the colors dancing on a wall behind her. 5. She wanted to really kiss a man for the first time, So she did And they made a list of the forbiddens, Then ignored them. She loves him and wonders how she could have gone so Long without this. He made her cry on accident when she was a new lover, She told him please keep touching, keep moving, But not away from me. She doesn’t want to be alone without him now.

Scarlet Poppy The Scarlet Poppy swings in the wind. She is unaware of the rain coming, And her city being washed clean. Her roots being muddied don’t bother her, She makes her feet touch the water to feel alive. She stretches her tips—unwrinkled and newly born, To the sun and clouds, unfurling and grasping at sky and storm. I asked the sower what flower she would be And he answered me, “Poppy.” So Poppy she grew, With pale pink on her cheeks, And streaks of gold in her iris, And Scarlet to those who planted her. She dances across the floor of her bedroom, Loved before she was ever planted.

Extra Things When I was a young girl, new to puberty And new to my body, With plum purple stretch marks, Painful growing bones And sore breasts, I was unhappy. My mother told me, don’t worry, Things will move around And you will be happy. People will see you differently. Especially men, they will like you and You, Will break their hearts. I am older now and she was right, things have moved around. But I still have them— Things. Extra things, more than I need. My belly rolls three times, gathering fat on Its way down, like a snowball. My skin is dry, stubbornly so. The condition is called “chicken skin”, A nice name for human skin. My mom tried to help me once. She bought me a big bottle of expensive lotion, Got mad when I didn't use it, And never bought me Aveeno again. Will someone please tell me, How am I supposed to break a man’s heart when my thighs aren’t smooth?

My hips, thighs, butt, breasts, Are all covered in white stretch marks. There is a price to pay for extra things And sure, things move around. But moving isn’t cleaning, or healing, or covering. I will always have those scars. A few months ago I got some new ones at my hips. Jesus Christ, what am I? 13 again? Moving around again? My body is a glutton for things. Most times I feel bad about all these things, But other times I don't. When I get home and the sun is setting Through my window, The light is low and soft, like my tummy. And I take off my pants because they are uncomfortable And I want to lay down. I catch myself in the mirror and stop. Turn around and twist my neck To get a better look at her. I face her straight on. No pose no fake no sucking in. She is fine. Maybe this isn’t want my mom imagined For me when she described me as a heartbreaker. But I am not interested in having a body that kills.

She said I would be happy, but I’m not (mostly). I have hair too. But the good thing is, More of it than I need, I own tweezers A happy trail, like a fucking man. I can go to the gym God, it's ridiculous. I can buy my own expensive lotion now. I always have to pluck, pluck, pluck And even if I have none of that, Until I feel like a woman again. Or do none of that, The hair on my hands follows the same pattern I stand, naked and warm in front of the mirror and think, As my father. She’s not bad, That doesn't bother me so much, I’m really not that bad. I like to be like my dad. But the hairs on my chin do. They started growing about two years ago. My sister told me, The same thing happened to me, That's just going to be your problem area.

Mixing Paints RED for my mother who gets angry quick. She pounces before you have a chance to prepare. For passion– and a fuse that is always burning. And red for a mother’s love, that rests on children who come and go, stay and leave. Red is the only color strong enough to endure this life of motherhood. She tells me I will understand when I am mother red, but For now I am only daughter pink. I do not understand her love. I do not understand her anger. BLUE for my father who is deep, still, and calm. Always. I can’t remember seeing him yell Or rush anywhere. His words are carefully measured, like rainfall. There is much to him I do not understand, (like the ocean, eighty percent of him remains unexplored) Blue for sadness and tranquility, And letting them argue together until blue Is the only thing I can see when I close my eyes. He tells me to just laugh, Laugh when nothing is funny and everything hurts. PURPLE for their daughters. Lavender and plum, We are two sides of the same coin, But heads and tails couldn’t be more different. She would bruise her fists purple for me, And I would do the same for her. Anger and sadness and red and blue are all held in our hands. My sister and I, Princesses of the same kingdom, Products of the same union, Two sides of the same coin.

Haikus from Home In my childhood room Â Layers of paint are white-washed, Little girl colors gone Roses on a wall yellow and green and old too. They sway this morning I turn a new key, Open a door that is far Away in the rain

California Forest Fires in November of 2018

Sometimes I leave my home and the air smells heavy, Like a campfire, but more fiery. I am used to the gray fire clouds in the sky And the pink sunsets that hurt my eyes When I watch the sun die behind a thick layer of ash. Every year California seems to be full of wrath. She is thirsty, like an angry, hungry babe But I have nothing to offer her. â&#x20AC;&#x153;There is no reason for these massive, deadly and costly forest fires in California except that forest management is so poor. Billions of dollars are given each year, with so many lives lost, all because of gross mismanagement of the forests. Remedy now, or no more Fed payments!â&#x20AC;? - President Donald J. Trump An old woman returns home To find nothing standing, nothing saved. A small child has no school To go back to on Monday. Several people, Eighty-eight,Â said the last report, Could not get away in time to avoid the flames. The last thing they saw was burnt orange.

(beat)

Seven Months December The first night, I got in his car at 1:30 am to go to McDonald’s And thought to myself, You stupid girl, you don’t even know this guy. The second night, we went to the library at 2 am after getting taco bell. I suggested we leave all hot sauces arranged in a circle. Plastic and pure. A perfect, holy offering to the library gods To help me pass the test I didn't study for— Because I couldn't. How could I with him next to me? January Until 4 am I would ask him questions and he would ask them back. Everything I was curious about he answered. Maybe it's easier to tell the truth to your phone; Maybe it's harder to tell if you have a crush too. In the car with ice cream tongues he said, I like you, so you don't have to worry about that. FebruaryAt 3 am I could tell he wanted to kiss me. He asked me if he could, But I wouldn't let him. An hour later I said, I want to kiss you bad. Do it, then. No, you. (I am afraid) Sweet. Our first kiss turned into our first kisses. MarchAt a concert he didn’t care about, The moment after the lead singer groaned, I think I’m in love with the thought of us, I heard him whisper in my ear, In the front row, With his hands on my waist. It felt like a first kiss all over again. JuneI made him afraid when I waited too long To say “I Love You” back. But the truth is, I had loved him already. Since a day in May, When he stopped cleaning and slow-danced with me In a quiet room And our feet stepped over taco bell bags And old assignments. I love you too Silly boy, how could you not see that I love you too? 14

Girlfriends Will Save The World In this room my bed is yellow. A quilt from when my parents were young lays at the head when I leave to drive nowhere. It’s only an excuse for music of the 80s to play in my car while I think of my girls and my bed that has held a man When my yellow bed wrapped around the man I wondered if my love has ever been stronger, for yellow. Yes, when I watched the sun rest with my girls from the kitchen where we feel so young and dance to music like we lived then, in the 80s. I remember when I arrived here, after a long drive, When I was sad and all I could do was drive in the same car where I kissed a man. I drove fast like I was in a film from the 80s. Reckless, like how he looks like fire yellow sunsets and blood pumping so young. But bright cherry red and soft pink are my girls. I look at their lipgloss and messy hair. Lovely, lovely girls when it’s sunset and their skin glows as we drive. We talk; no man can translate the words of girls who are young.

Dancing in the Moonlight It’s a dance we haven't done in a while, see the slow sway stream of movement that sings of love and future-focused fantasy. our song is here, plays soft and I move things out of the way with my feet, multitask. dancing in the moonlight, it’s a white lie. the sun is out, my skin is warm, we bask in the comfort of repetition and sweet sly traditions. Our dance doesn't match the beat of such a happy song. But to us, it is not the dance, the song, the moving feet; it’s the tradition, our thing. I admit: if we were to end, this dance: now fluid, would be gone. A song forever ruined.

Too Bad Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Dead Sepulchral Effigy of a Knight of Santiago de Compostela Spain, c. 1510-1520 I stumbled on a man Laying on the marble ground On a marble slab, marble man His hands were large and Not unlike his living brother His nails were trimmed, his arms poised Clean was his burial ground His life stored in one white room Eternal home, etched in stone and in ground His hands, they make me feel I could love this man Except he is too old for me And besides, he is dead and stone I wonder who loved him when he was alive I hope she adored him, he seems worthy Five-hundred years too late, I am alive

It’s So Stupid That I Can’t Think of My Dad Without Feeling a Little Bit Sad He’s several towns over and Probably has a pen to a pad Giving two when they ask for one, Cutting prices in half— A generous man. I don’t hear him laugh much anymore (I’m several towns over) Or see Fault lines on his face Red on his cheeks Weight on his shoulders Ache in his chest Breath in his lungs. I am nervous about Late night phone calls, A sad crossing into sorrow. My father has a laugh that bursts from his round belly. He taught me to Swim underwater Draw a shark Make a worm out of a straw wrapper, Then make it grow. My father is tender heart-string, walking around Taking smoke breaks Drinking cheap coffee. My friend smoked a cigarette and the smoke Drifted into the car, My shirt, my skin. I slept in that shirt that night, I smelt like home. I’ll never smoke a cigarette in my life. (Although, I might. Just to feel close to him.) But smoke drifts toward me, I breathe it in, I keep that shirt on when I sleep.

On Dying Young

I think about my death every day. Car Accident: Gruesome. Last words to a stranger. Rushed to hospital. Phone calls and moaned “no no no”. So many “no’s”. Lots of tears too. No warning. No preparation. No goodbyes. I’ll just be gone. Cancer: Gruesome. Last words to my mother, or God. Hospital, my second home. Phone calls and moaned “no no no”. So many “no’s”. Lots of tears too. Warning, but does that even help? Preparation, but what good does it do? Freak Accident: Extra gruesome. I don’t think much past this, it’s called a freak accident for a reason. You couldn’t imagine it if you tried. I think about my death often, but not because I want to die. In fact, I never want to die. But, I heard that when some people die they see a bright white light. This seems nice, like it might lead to a lovely bright place that is always the perfect temperature to keep me from sweating in the pits. I also heard that some people (the lucky ones) see an explosion of stars. An intergalactic atomic bomb of every color imaginable. This I am interested in. This almost entices me to death. I don’t want to die. But, I’m looking forward to the colors at the end of the tunnel. Please, God, if you’re gonna take me home before I’m ready at least make it pretty. Make it pretty to help me deal with the fact that the world will go on without me as if I was never even here, the self-centered bastards. I would go to heaven, I think (I don’t pray much these days and what I’m about to say isn’t what a good christian girl thinks). But, let’s just assume I’m headed north into the stratosphere and beyond. When I’m there, with the angels, my grammy, and my Good, Good Father I suspect I’ll be a pouty baby lamenting my virginity (curse the thing), my unwedded self, my never used womb, my lack of books with my name on the cover, my parents losing their baby, and my didn’t-even-make-a-bucket-list-to-start-crossing-things-off life. Pity a young death even when I’m in paradise.