Subject: Regret
"Communion" by Jeanann Verlee
I know a boy who said his girlfriend’s body was a “crime scene.” Dad, my body
is a crime scene. My body is lint and gasoline and matchstick. My body
is a brush fire. It’s ticking, Dad, a slow alarm. I have rain boots. Lots of
them. It isn’t raining anymore. The words are coming back, Dad. The way they fit
and jump in the mouth. I want ice cream and long letters. I want to read long
love letters but I don’t think he loves me. I think I’m used up. I think I’m the
grit under his nails, the girl who looks good in pictures. I don’t think he
loves me. I think they broke me, Dad. I think I drink too much and it’s because
they broke me. I heard about two girls recently, two women crushed like cherries
in a boy’s jaw. It opened me, Dad. My body is melted wax, it is ripe and stink
and bent. It is a mistake. I walk like an apology. I don’t hate men, Dad, I
don’t. I want a washing machine. I want someone else to do the dishes, someone
to walk the dog. I have a hornet in my head, Dad. A hornet. She’s an angry bitch
— she hurls herself against my skull. She stings. And stings. I know I don’t
make sense, Dad. This is the problem. I’m a sick girl, a crazy wishbone. I have
razors under my tongue. I’m sorry I cut you, Dad, I’m so--so sorry. I
gave you a card for Father’s Day once, it said you were my hero. You are. Your
laugh is a thunderclap, you love like surgery. I think they broke me, Dad. I
can’t erase their faces. I want to swim, Dad. Remember when I used to hopscotch?
I used to make you laugh. My feet are hot. The bottoms of my feet are scorched
sand, August asphalt. My body is a slug, a mob of sticky wet rot. No one touches
me anymore because I’m rot. Because my body is a spill no one wants to clean up.
They cracked me open, Dad, I know you don’t want to hear about it. You don’t
want to hear how they scissored me, how they gnawed me like raw meat. No one
wants to hear how they made me drink lemon juice, how they kicked the dog, how
they upturned the furniture, no one wants to hear how my skin turned to a dark
thick of purple and black and lead. I watch the homeless a lot, Dad. I watched a
man with a cup of coins and chips of skin carved out of his face. He had
freckles. He needs medicine, Dad. He needs to stop the hornet. My body is a
hive. I am red ants and jellyfish. A yellow sickness. My body is a used condom
in an alley in Jersey City. I don’t think he loves me, Dad. My body is a fetus
in a biohazard tank. A Polaroid pinned to a corkboard in Brooklyn. I think I’m
hurt, Dad. I think I was the tough girl for too long. My body is a wafer, a
thin, soft melt on a choir boy’s tongue.
Explanation: This poem is about depression, bullying, the terrible tension between daughter and father that shouldn't exist because she's his little girl and always will be. It's about being a feminist and hating the belief that feminists hate men. It's about hating yourself but not wanting to share it with anybody because most of them dismiss it, either because they don't believe you or because it makes them uncomfortable. It's also about being aware of the depression of others. This poem has a lot of imagery, and also uses metaphors.
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"Genetics of Regret" by Jeanann Verlee
I’m sorry I don’t call. Sorry I snuck down the stairs and out to the mouth of
a boy who will never know my name. I’m sorry I ruined your carpet with a
backdraft of whiskey. I’m sorry I told our secrets. Sorry I put them in a book.
Sorry I didn’t tell you about it. I’m sorry for the freckles and the switches
and the mean boys in grade school. I’m sorry I scratched your Neil Diamond
record. Sorry I drew the picture of the dead cat. Titled it after my dead
sister. I’m sorry they pulled her from your body like a sad wet sponge. I’m
sorry no one came to the hospital. Sorry I felt sorry. I’m sorry about the
stolen tampons and the nest of mice in the stove. The pennies for gas money.
Sorry I drank all your rum. Sorry about the boy in the basement. And the one on
the porch. And the back of your car. I’m sorry about the slashed window screens.
And forearms. I’m sorry I lied about acid and the boy with the knife. The
houseful of beer rats. Sorry for the weevils and the dead grass. I’m sorry I
don’t call anymore. I’m sorry your life looks like this in photo albums. Sorry I
was part of your stain. I’m sorry it took 36 years to say this. You hate me. You
are too kind to say so. Sorry I told our stories. Sorry I am so small. Sorry I
haven’t thanked you for sacrifice. For stereo and dolls and English and
correcting my stutter and the big slumber party with all the gift bags. Sorry I
vomited in the wash drain. Sorry I left. Sorry I came back. I’m sorry you still
get so angry. Sorry I struck back. Sorry I loved you so hard-then turned like a
coin that has run out of spin. I’m sorry the rock opened that boy’s forehead.
Sorry I cursed you. Sorry I wouldn’t let you hit me anymore. I’m sorry I lied.
Sorry I couldn’t tell you. Sorry I am a coward. My skin has started to yellow.
My neck is curving into an ampersand. I’m sorry we can’t talk about it. I sorry
we can’t talk. Sorry the world kicked you so hard. I’m sorry he’s sick, mama.
Sorry all I can do is worry what happens next. Sorry I wrote the poems. Sorry I
stopped calling. Sorry I don’t visit. Sorry you never wanted me. I can’t be
fixed. We can’t laugh. I’m sorry I don’t need you like other girls. There’s so
much decay in these bones. There are no grandchildren. Sorry I failed. Sorry I
am alone. I’m sorry alone is easier than talking to you. I’m sorry it comes like
this. Flood and undertow. Sorry I can’t sit comfortably in the same room. That I
twitch like a startled moth. Sorry I came out hard and sharp and full of claws.
Ruined your body. Only learned the wrong things. I’m sorry you’re so far. Sorry
I have no intention of coming to find you.
I’m sorry I don’t call.
Explanation: This poem is about regrets and apologies the poet has for her mother, and uses imagery and metaphors, as do most of her poems.
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"A Poem About Regret" by Angie Jardine
We bear a heavy past, my love
Of guilt and restless hurt
And there are things that we would change
The pain of others to avert
But that is gone and that is dead
There is no way to heal
A fractured life, those faulty steps
However much we feel
For many men have passed like this
A life of vague regret
Too lost inside themselves to see
The path on which they're set
There is no way to change what was
Now time has drifted by
It's better far to soldier on
And leave the past to lie
So we must travel on our way
And share the love we've found
And love each other more each day
And spread that blessing round.
Explanation: This poem is about letting go of the past so that you are able to move on with your life, and uses assonance to convey its message.
I know a boy who said his girlfriend’s body was a “crime scene.” Dad, my body
is a crime scene. My body is lint and gasoline and matchstick. My body
is a brush fire. It’s ticking, Dad, a slow alarm. I have rain boots. Lots of
them. It isn’t raining anymore. The words are coming back, Dad. The way they fit
and jump in the mouth. I want ice cream and long letters. I want to read long
love letters but I don’t think he loves me. I think I’m used up. I think I’m the
grit under his nails, the girl who looks good in pictures. I don’t think he
loves me. I think they broke me, Dad. I think I drink too much and it’s because
they broke me. I heard about two girls recently, two women crushed like cherries
in a boy’s jaw. It opened me, Dad. My body is melted wax, it is ripe and stink
and bent. It is a mistake. I walk like an apology. I don’t hate men, Dad, I
don’t. I want a washing machine. I want someone else to do the dishes, someone
to walk the dog. I have a hornet in my head, Dad. A hornet. She’s an angry bitch
— she hurls herself against my skull. She stings. And stings. I know I don’t
make sense, Dad. This is the problem. I’m a sick girl, a crazy wishbone. I have
razors under my tongue. I’m sorry I cut you, Dad, I’m so--so sorry. I
gave you a card for Father’s Day once, it said you were my hero. You are. Your
laugh is a thunderclap, you love like surgery. I think they broke me, Dad. I
can’t erase their faces. I want to swim, Dad. Remember when I used to hopscotch?
I used to make you laugh. My feet are hot. The bottoms of my feet are scorched
sand, August asphalt. My body is a slug, a mob of sticky wet rot. No one touches
me anymore because I’m rot. Because my body is a spill no one wants to clean up.
They cracked me open, Dad, I know you don’t want to hear about it. You don’t
want to hear how they scissored me, how they gnawed me like raw meat. No one
wants to hear how they made me drink lemon juice, how they kicked the dog, how
they upturned the furniture, no one wants to hear how my skin turned to a dark
thick of purple and black and lead. I watch the homeless a lot, Dad. I watched a
man with a cup of coins and chips of skin carved out of his face. He had
freckles. He needs medicine, Dad. He needs to stop the hornet. My body is a
hive. I am red ants and jellyfish. A yellow sickness. My body is a used condom
in an alley in Jersey City. I don’t think he loves me, Dad. My body is a fetus
in a biohazard tank. A Polaroid pinned to a corkboard in Brooklyn. I think I’m
hurt, Dad. I think I was the tough girl for too long. My body is a wafer, a
thin, soft melt on a choir boy’s tongue.
Explanation: This poem is about depression, bullying, the terrible tension between daughter and father that shouldn't exist because she's his little girl and always will be. It's about being a feminist and hating the belief that feminists hate men. It's about hating yourself but not wanting to share it with anybody because most of them dismiss it, either because they don't believe you or because it makes them uncomfortable. It's also about being aware of the depression of others. This poem has a lot of imagery, and also uses metaphors.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Genetics of Regret" by Jeanann Verlee
I’m sorry I don’t call. Sorry I snuck down the stairs and out to the mouth of
a boy who will never know my name. I’m sorry I ruined your carpet with a
backdraft of whiskey. I’m sorry I told our secrets. Sorry I put them in a book.
Sorry I didn’t tell you about it. I’m sorry for the freckles and the switches
and the mean boys in grade school. I’m sorry I scratched your Neil Diamond
record. Sorry I drew the picture of the dead cat. Titled it after my dead
sister. I’m sorry they pulled her from your body like a sad wet sponge. I’m
sorry no one came to the hospital. Sorry I felt sorry. I’m sorry about the
stolen tampons and the nest of mice in the stove. The pennies for gas money.
Sorry I drank all your rum. Sorry about the boy in the basement. And the one on
the porch. And the back of your car. I’m sorry about the slashed window screens.
And forearms. I’m sorry I lied about acid and the boy with the knife. The
houseful of beer rats. Sorry for the weevils and the dead grass. I’m sorry I
don’t call anymore. I’m sorry your life looks like this in photo albums. Sorry I
was part of your stain. I’m sorry it took 36 years to say this. You hate me. You
are too kind to say so. Sorry I told our stories. Sorry I am so small. Sorry I
haven’t thanked you for sacrifice. For stereo and dolls and English and
correcting my stutter and the big slumber party with all the gift bags. Sorry I
vomited in the wash drain. Sorry I left. Sorry I came back. I’m sorry you still
get so angry. Sorry I struck back. Sorry I loved you so hard-then turned like a
coin that has run out of spin. I’m sorry the rock opened that boy’s forehead.
Sorry I cursed you. Sorry I wouldn’t let you hit me anymore. I’m sorry I lied.
Sorry I couldn’t tell you. Sorry I am a coward. My skin has started to yellow.
My neck is curving into an ampersand. I’m sorry we can’t talk about it. I sorry
we can’t talk. Sorry the world kicked you so hard. I’m sorry he’s sick, mama.
Sorry all I can do is worry what happens next. Sorry I wrote the poems. Sorry I
stopped calling. Sorry I don’t visit. Sorry you never wanted me. I can’t be
fixed. We can’t laugh. I’m sorry I don’t need you like other girls. There’s so
much decay in these bones. There are no grandchildren. Sorry I failed. Sorry I
am alone. I’m sorry alone is easier than talking to you. I’m sorry it comes like
this. Flood and undertow. Sorry I can’t sit comfortably in the same room. That I
twitch like a startled moth. Sorry I came out hard and sharp and full of claws.
Ruined your body. Only learned the wrong things. I’m sorry you’re so far. Sorry
I have no intention of coming to find you.
I’m sorry I don’t call.
Explanation: This poem is about regrets and apologies the poet has for her mother, and uses imagery and metaphors, as do most of her poems.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"A Poem About Regret" by Angie Jardine
We bear a heavy past, my love
Of guilt and restless hurt
And there are things that we would change
The pain of others to avert
But that is gone and that is dead
There is no way to heal
A fractured life, those faulty steps
However much we feel
For many men have passed like this
A life of vague regret
Too lost inside themselves to see
The path on which they're set
There is no way to change what was
Now time has drifted by
It's better far to soldier on
And leave the past to lie
So we must travel on our way
And share the love we've found
And love each other more each day
And spread that blessing round.
Explanation: This poem is about letting go of the past so that you are able to move on with your life, and uses assonance to convey its message.