Poems By Carol Lynn
Mean girl smoked long thin cigarettes
in back of the restroom, exhaling air,
like acidic smoke, until her lungs
were blackened but good. In a guttural
voice as mad as bees, she’d swear
in languages I’d never heard.
Mean girl swung the tip of a catgut,
like a dangling threat, thrice wrapped
and knotted around my throat. So I’d
slump down low in wimpish-mode
and draw blue balloon heads saying
bad girl things, in illegible code.
Mean girl smirked in every direction;
with a mouthful of seeds in pomegranate
juice. She oozed red blood like a ravenous
animal, all the way down her skintight
skirt. There I stood, my hair in tendrils,
Capezio shoes and my little pink shirt-
The one my mother embroidered
for Christmas- God hath not promised
skies always blue, flower-strewn pathways
all our lives through Dear mean girl,
you, with your badass attitude, me a little
too soft for my own good, let's make amends
I think we could have been friends.
Mean girl passed away in her sleep
having braved the world for too many
years. Unable to merge her dichotomized
life she ended her days with a bottle
of pills. Missed by those who never knew,
they found note in her Capezio shoes
near a little pink shirt hand-stitched with prayers.
When We Were Convent Girls
I remember her; the flower-thief who wept
in every garden’s bed, who bent the calyx
with mathematical fingers until the hollow
could be felt encircling us like worn out
rings around a dull and aged moon. Her path
to branches where lilacs grew began
to crumble much to soon. A girl whose
life became a shoebox-dream. Whose little
song stayed locked inside her throat. Let’s
sing, she’d say. Let’s be nocturnal souls.
She’d dab some ouzo on my tongue
an aperitif, the scent of anise sweet
as licorice seeds. She’d cascade through
all delusions long accepted to be truths. I’d
die a death each time I tried to hum her song.
It was a saintly sound. She was a pilgrim
meant to roam. She may have been a sleuth
from Heaven where her spirit called her body
home. One day she said she heard the watchman
ring a bell. I watched her walk across the rivulet,
past ourselves to one who knew her well.
Carol Lynn Grellas is a two-time Pushcart nominee and the
author of two chapbooks: Litany of Finger Prayers, from Pudding
House Press and Object of Desire newly released from Finishing
Line Press. She is widely published in magazines and online
journals including most recently, The Smoking Poet, Oak Bend
Review and Flutter, with work upcoming in decomP, Thick with
Conviction and Poetry Midwest and Best of Boston Literary
Magazine. She lives with her husband, five children and a blind
dog named Ginger.