Artistic compromise and the way I eschew obviousness with a fierce passion has become a bone of contention in my creative writing workshop. I just don't want to change a word. Any word I change would somehow cheapen the entire thing... but the sweet boy who sits behind me with the wavy brown hair and every exacting diction said: "Don't change a word, Claudine. Your poem is perfect."
So... here it is..
"I love you". "You're sweet", "Be mine"
the end of the second week of the second month of foggy winter
still and unassuming in the wake of the new year
a day of chalky pastel candy and construction paper hearts
passed unnoticed as a little girl.
seven year old hands never gripped the chain as the sand
grew farther away
and the grey February sky
grew closer
I wanted to be launched forward,
say 'hello' to the Grand Publisher
and fall back again
to the grainy sand below.
the second week fervor of cupids and arrows
inflamed the minds of the surrounding little girls,
passed though my eyes unnoticed- never noticed the capricious ways in which little girls
were supposed to hate boys
without constancy
or integrity
seven year old hands gripped the little scissors
laying on the carpet at home
with the latest issues of Bible Literature
piled on the table
my seven year old hands so carefully edited each card
tremulously careful should the child-like blade touch the words
"I love you."
"You're sweet."
"Be mine."
one stack- a red and pink pile of cardboard with holes
one stack- a red and pink pile of cardboard bits
bearing the word "valentine"
-C. Woodard
...nope, sorry class. I'm not gonna change a word...
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