New Year's Resolutions

1) Learn to cook. By that I mean something more sophisticated than microwaved ready meals, disastrously messy omelettes and tinned soup.
2) Be more feminist. Politically I am so passionate about feminism and so conscious of it, yet in 2009 I let certain men treat me in a way I would not wish to see my best friend be treated and only in retrospect do I see how utterly wrong everything was. In 2010, as weird as it sounds, I am going to be my own best friend, I am going to be kind to myself, worry less, make better choices in men, and do things that are good for me.
3) Go running more.
4) Read a classic novel per week unrelated to my course. Or a Shakespeare play.
5) Write a poem each week. It's the only way to really improve, and also so cathartic.
6) Find three new poets to love.
7) Go to more protests and campaign for the things I believe in. Every time I miss a campaign or fail to contribute to a political cause I care about, I always regret it. Next year I want less regrets and more experiences.
8) Write more articles for the University newspaper and stay up to date with the news.
9) Work in France this summer.
10) Work harder and go to the library more often! Especially need to do more French grammar, malheureusement....
11) Stop buying women's magazines.
12) There are people with real problems in this world, so I am not going to worry about my body or feel sorry for myself when my psoriasis flares up.
13) Speak out against prejudice. Challenge discriminatory things people say.
14) Volunteer at some point whether where I live or abroad.
15) Be happy.

The Worst Of It

The worst of it is
the knowing and the not knowing
taste of betrayal pooling like blood
in the shallows of my mouth.
Imprinted memory of your
gleaming eyes and hands on my face—
and every laugh a laugh at me.

You made me do it, didn’t you.
You made me love you because you
knew you could
and then you left my love in the cold
and laughed at it,
made the hot twisting of our bodies
an insult to my being.

Every little power you took
crawls under my skin
and every kind word
bites
at my neck.
You knew I’d do anything for you.
You’d do anything to me.

No, the worst of it is
the thought of me,
always adoring,
you always bitterly adored
and
the loss only mine darling
a hole punched through my heart.

Calais

A hundred eyes behind a fence.
Caged hearts in stinking tents.
Feel my bloody fingers. Slide your
hand over the wet warmth of mine.
Stand with me in this crunch of dust.
My scorched skin shines with the
quick sweat of memories. Touch it.
Touch our faces. Faces stamped by
hot despair. Bodies that have trudged
forever and will always trudge with
the dry creak of young bones, with
the low whimper of young minds.
Come in and touch us and see us and
hold our beaten hands. You will not
link your hard fists together then.
You could not stand before us and shout,
with feral eyes, go home go home go home.

What She Said

Well she told you no but
you knew, didn't you, from
the way she walked with a tiny
sway-sway and a glimpse of lace
that she meant yes yes yes.

Remember how she said stop
but you knew she was lying because
of her flirt's laugh and tart's
eyelashes and the way she could
torture you with a smile.

And oh she did cry a little
but you knew she was an actress
because of the way she had of
tossing that red hair and showing
that freckle-splashed cleavage.

But now you're finished
and she's bleeding
isn't she?
and poor you,
caught up
in this tragic
misunderstanding.

Bubble

Let's savour it, this time.
The swell and fall of light,
simmer of half voices under windows.

Paths cut by fast feet in fields
and memories devoured like juicy handfuls
that will slowly bleed down chins.

We'll remember how to dance, clapping
hands to the low beat of freedom
or the song we'll give our summer to.

Encased in heat we know will break,
the sheen we know will fade, one foot
quivering on the edge of childhood,

our laughter deep with dreams foreseen.

Fruit Picking

This wild, thick air has hot teeth,
and it sticks to skin under a bright
blinding wide sky, gulping the
smells of banana skins and sweat.

Muscles, alive and tired, gleam
and twitch in our working arms,
a thousand anonymous bodies
waving offerings to a sleeping god.

Soon these shining yellow smiles
will be eaten mockingly, blindly,
a million miles from here, and
our frenzied grasping fingertips.

Here, night creeps closer; trees
sigh with cool relief. The baskets
are brimming. The blood brims too,
like tears from my blistered hands.

Girl at Train Station

you are cigarettes and eau de perfection
and nails that could scratch a heart out.
huddled in knitwear with ostrich neck
and thighs I could wrap my hands around.

look at your clever slap of blusher. I’m
thinking of 1942, of Jews daubing blood
on cheeks to flail for a few breaths of life;
but girl, who will love you for this final denial?

this thrilled immunity to soft hipped fertility,
then bloodless months to make you glow, sucking
slow grapes for dinner, shrouded in hairspray and
bangles. oh loveless girl, prisoner of your own war.