Michelle Kubilis Aaron Smith Senior Seminar 5 May 2016 They Say He Liked Me The first time you came over, you said you were okay with just cuddling, with a layer of clothes between your machismo and my virginity. I wanted you to open up to me, and you wanted me to open up too. Six or seven. That’s how long it took (in minutes) for you to shift against me. I felt it—nestled against my boundaries. As you guided me downward, foreign and uninvited, I pulled back. But you were stronger. You fastened my hand around you— a puppeteer.
I’m Sorry I Stopped Saying, “I Love You” When your mind started splitting itself, cell by cell, I fought against the hospital bills, tissues scattered across the kitchen floor, against your flailing arms and babbling tongue— against you. As your thoughts waned, so did your garden that you tended to so fervently. Our Uno deck grew dusty, like your memories of me, and I stopped hearing Italian folk songs in the morning. I fought the world when you got sick. I fought you. But you were still there, entangled within the dying vines of your brain. I wish I could have cut them down.
I Should Have Told Him Your boyfriend was in Colorado, sweating through army gear and Skyping you between drills. You were back in Massachusetts, trading kisses for booze and five minutes of someone’s time.
Lie By Omission What I Said: My eyes were puffy because I couldn’t sleep. What I Meant: I couldn’t sleep because I am lost— a sheep without a herd, wandering around and “baa”ing in confusion.
Io Sono Italiana You always wanted me to speak Italian. “Sei Italiana! Parla!” said the gesturing hands, fingertips kissing one another. I would groan, “Mom nobody else speaks Italian,” and you’d sigh, asking Dio why you got stuck with such a stubborn daughter. Then you’d shake your head at my response— “Because I’m Italian!” But I didn’t want to be Italian when Americans pulled the th out of Nutella, or when they mocked my frizzy hair. I didn’t want to wear my Italian. I tried straightening the Italian out of my hair, but water brought it back mostly. Some strands slipped down the drain, pulling part of me with them. You always wanted me to speak Italian, and now I wish I could.
“Come Stop Your Crying, It Will Be All Right” You used to stroke my knuckles to the tempo of “You’ll Be In My Heart.” Remember when we saw it in theatres for the first time? And the second? You sang it to me afterwards, rocking me in your arms. I still can’t watch Tarzan without cradling a box of tissues.
Firefly 2015 I was fidgety, thick with mud and liquor, too tired to wash the day off. You took me, pouring water down my muddy legs and scraping away the festival. Your hands were patient as they scrubbed at my rough, scuffed skin, but you were weary too. I realized that I wanted to marry you as we lay in our grimy tent, five bodies.
In the Morning, I’ll Take My Coffee Black Sometimes you shove, your knee wedged between me and sleep-haven, but I stay gentle, silent for you. When you groan at night, eyes shuddering and teeth scraping in your nightmare fog, I trace your chest hairs, clockwise, counterclockwise, until your breath matches mine.
Forgive Me Father, For I Have Sinned They say that whiskey is Devil’s juice, but that night, I mistook it for holy water. By the end, I was crucified and nailed to the couch, like a sweaty rag doll.
Terms and Conditions of Parenting You signed up for a posh daughter, stick up her ass and dainty crumpet-picking fingers. But once this clump of cells was expelled from your body, I was no longer yours. I never signed your goddamn contract. I wrote my own.
Chicago The word still burns my tongue like deep dish pizza, still greasy from the oven. It tastes like tacky envelopes made out to “Dad.” Your address, mom’s handwriting— she always knew how to fill in the blanks.
Out of Body / Becoming My Body
As we kissed the swirling sky— fractal clouds pulsing to the violet, orange, yellow bass— I became everything. I drifted past myself, staring down; knees bent, arms spread wide. I had never realized I was that small.
Present Tense for the Passed Dad is gangly, freckled, short fingernails— bitten to the stub. Dad is soft, voice an octave above a whisper. “Dad is” is a lie. --Dad (was) gangly, freckled, short fingernails— bitten to the stub. Dad (was) soft, voice an octave above a whisper.
“Dad (was)” is
List of Grievances to My Shoulder-Gremlin I don’t appreciate your goddamn attitude every time I spoon a sixteenth of a gram of sugar into my coffee. Or your urging to study the lines on my belly before “earning” a scoop of ice cream (but only if I hadn’t eaten breakfast). Cram a fat slice of “shut the fuck up” into your mouth and let me eat my own; I’m trying to stop caring that my resolve is weaker than the top button on my favorite jeans.
I Know You I know you, the petite yellow-tinted woman, face blurry behind the lens. Nonna told me about your calloused, delicate hands that sowed / sewed through the days. You were young when the brown faded from your hair, and when those hands started trembling. But you still prayed every night, one “Ave Maria� for each aching limb. I knew you,
and I wish you could have known me.
Down There I thought I would get sucked into Hell and seated at Satan’s right hand, down There, if I took a peek. Then I found myself perched—eight— on the toilet, mirror tilted downward. There were no flames, only redness radiating from my cheeks. I looked away and put down the mirror.
She Still Calls Me “Little Miss Broken Eyes� I was four and I thought my eyes were broken. Perched on the dresser and face pressed against the mirror, I stared into my pupils, watching them watch me as I swiveled my head from side to side. They rotated with me, turning as I did, and unceasingly fixed on themselves. I started sobbing, red, runny eyes blurring my reflection. Mom ran in, panicked, thinking I had injured myself. It was worse than that. My eyes were broken.
The Feminine Mystique 1. Your advisor suggested that you find yourself a nice Italian man (from a wealthy family, of course). He would pay the bills and wipe the tears off your face in return for gracious children and a sterile home. You’re just a breeding pair of hips, remember? 2. You crossed him, just as you crossed two stages in four years. In four childbearing years, you produced a career for yourself—by yourself. You were the first in your family—the first woman—to know and understand. You’re just a breeding pair of hips, remember? 3. You were mother and father, when men proved themselves unreliable; a heavy duo within a petite woman whose spirit and determination had always been too big for the world around her. But you never scaled them down. You’re just a breeding pair of hips, remember?
(My) Kind of Pretty Hands graze my cheeks, wiping away Ivory #2— full coverage. You like me better without it, as my kind of pretty. But I want to be her kind of pretty.
It Was The Fourth of July We crept away from the bustle of the party, craving silence— solitude. Fireflies lit the air in blips of bright yellow, and the sky was clear. I had never seen that many stars through my city eyes. You watched me, mesmerized, as my face glowed in the night. Everything was silent but the lights were alive.