The Maynard
Spring 2016

Amie Whittemore

Year In Review

Two perfect haircuts, one trash bag of a trim.
First tattoo, torn tights worn
accidentally to work—more than once.
Number of ticks yanked from thigh: one.
Number of ticks I feared swam in my hair:
millions. Kicked my feet in two oceans,
fondled a few women’s breasts.
No dog bounded to my front door
with a giant stick in its mouth.
No niece said my name or asked me
about the formation of rain.
The usual tragedies blossomed like crocus
in its season—a dead cat, financial distress,
a grandmother’s memory fading like jeans.
Bad similes sprung up like weeds.
I lost the lottery as often as I entered—
which was never. Quit zero jobs.
Smoked half a cigarette; tried no psychedelics.
Kissed a man I disdained, a few I admired—
spoke to my dead cat in a dream.
Grew weepy in conversation about said dead cat
more often than is culturally appropriate.
Had no miscarriages, no cancer.
Ate a few pounds of arugula, a few more
of mozzarella. Drank cheap wine weekly,
often while phoning my parents.
Started a budget, broke it on day two.
Woke up everyday! So far. So far my teeth
hang on, legs carry me around.
The heart’s quicksand remains potent.
June curls its vines into my grip like reins,
reminds me six months is nothing.
Ride this horse till it’s blue.