Collection of RevisionsValerie Casola

WR 340

I, Valerie Casola, pledge that in this assignment, I have upheld the ideals of academic honesty as stated in the Honor Code.

Valerie Casola

Sound of a Broken Heart

Hospital bracelets finally meeta garbage can outside of a loud, moving carnival. I smile, grateful, but pause when I hear a gentle tick tick tickremembering the robot actingas an engine in my chest.

I catch sight of the small, old, hunched over fortune man sitting at his stand,polishing his crystal ball, incense sticks locked in hand. A woman approaches him,hands a pamphlet whichhe tosses away.

People try to give him God every day. He catches my sight anddraws me over. I sit down,put out my hand, feeling his eyes tracing highways.

He looks at me, gentle face, a smile spread with yellow teeth.

“You are armored skin and first-prize smarts, soft touch but injured heart.”

My eyes grow wide asI pull away and leavea crumpled $5 bill,hear him say as I am leaving,

“Appreciate that tick, you’re a special pick.”

Later when the sky has grown darkand I lay in my bed,eyes closed,I listen to a

ba-bump ba-bump ba-bumpand a quiet

tick tick tickand wonder how a littlelonely man could see

a hole in the middleof me.

On the Great South Bay, the 7:00 Ferry Ride

Ocean mist peppersyour pale complexion,wind grazes your darkhair, and grains of sandlive between your toes. You are in a place nobody else knows.

Eyes closed, you are asilent soul, thinking.Stars form treasure mapsbehind your eyelids and you follow themwherever the light decides to lead you.

The sky holds hues ofbeautiful pinks andreds but while you stareinto the sunset,I see you struggling to find a place forfavorite yellows.

I watch you lean onthe rail, gazing off.As you close your eyes,I know that you areimagining yourlife somewhere else butplease, remember me.

Cartography

Last night, a boy severed the lifelinein my heartbeat. An angel who was

roaming over the earth watched. It took me into its arms and tried to realign my breath, but could not coaxthe sliver back into me because it was trying

to reach for the boy hand as he ran, but he plunged into the night too quickly.

The angel restarted a rhythm withhands like an AED and ran its palmsover the sky full of stars, tracingan open atlas with new roads

lit with fiery streetlamps and a highway made of the cosmos.

Misperceptions

You just want to rub yourself cleanof some charcoal and line whileI’m looking for something I’ve never seen

sipping on some French caffeine.Today you created art from a junk pile,but you just want to rub yourself clean

and paint yourself as my perfect scene.I’ve painted myself so versatile,looking for something I’ve never seen

and I know to you I’ve become a queen,like one who never falls out of stylebut just want to rub yourself clean

wishing to be compiled of different genes.I try to say you are worthwhileas I look for something I’ve never seen

with eyes a beautiful sage green.Instead you choose to go the extra mile,wanting to just rub yourself clean,but I’m looking at something I’ve never seen.

Tuesday, March 4th 2013 (Told By A Bus-Stop Bench)

1:14 AM

The air is cold and so am I.I support the weight of aslumbering body on mywrought iron legs. Wind forcesit to shift uncomfortably, mydark wooden frame creaking,wishing I could stretch my framelonger to accommodate it.

6:47 AM

A newspaper is slammed againstmy body and a hoarse yell runsthrough the air. The sound of heels stomping on solid cementstops as a weight sits on the far leftend of me. I wish I could say the day could be worse but all I can dois offer a seat. The weight stays until the next bus arrives some time later.

12:27 PM

I am occupied by four bodies shakingwith laughter. I shake too. Someketchup from a cheeseburger falls onme and goes unnoticed. The bodiesleave when the next bus arrives.I wish they would stay so I can shake with laughter some more. Instead,a pigeon lands on my arm and cleans off the ketchup.

5:39 PM

A weight sinks onto my frame and I begin to shake – not a laughter kind of shake – but a nervous kneeshake and hands grasp me, turningknuckle bone white. I wish he couldsee the small heart carved years agoon me, but he is sitting on it.

10:52 PM

Shards of glass tickle my iron legs asa bottle smashes next to me. A blow hits my side and a weight drops onto me, sobbing. Tears fall on me, stainingmy frame a darker brown. Some timelater, more blows hit my frame andI wish they would stop before I break.They don’t. The weight leaves and I stay,a broken bench.

Some Tips On Handling Perfection

Whenever perfection prevents you from slumbering fully and peacefully at night,

put in some earplugs so her gossipand whispers cannot penetrate your mind. Make sure to

close your bedroom curtains so her soft, wispy light cannot shine on the parts of you that you wishwere brand new.

Whenever perfection flauntsher tiny waist,her luscious locks,her clear skin,her bold eyes,her long legs,

do it right backto show herthat her sillylittle charmsand trickswill not workon someone like you.

Whenever perfectionsneaks through thecrack under the doorof your bedroom

grab hold of herand do notworry about herprickly teeth onyour tiny hands.She is not whoshe appears to be.

Lock her up tight

in a boxand take herout from timeto time. Youcan teach herto be the obedient one inthe relationship.

To Christopher, On Our First Christmas

I know that sometimes when you are flying high in the air and you look out of the window andyou catch sight of the world lit up and you can’thelp but feel so small underneath the flicker ofits bright flame, you end up thinking

there are so many people that are something more than I ambut I need you to know that you are the steadybreath in my lungs and the firm ground beneathmy feet

you are the ticking time-bomb of a soul trying toburst out in the flash of the click of your camera,the careful calculation of placing bait in the perfectspot in the still water of a river, the gentleness of letting your catch swim back to its home,the fire fueling a working kitchen and the sweet tasteof its meals,the success laced in callused hands from trying toclimb to the top of the world

something that managed to stick with me from 7th gradescience class is that every atom in our bodies was oncepart of a star and with bravery coursing through your veinsit’s no wonder you dive into the spark of a flame without a second thought; you are the protection of a soldier and the comfort of the North Star

and when you knit your fingers with mine you aremy home