August 18, 2017

Three Poems by Irene Son

0
Three Poems by Irene Son

Battle for the Finish Line

My friends step up to the starting line
I look around
We all look like hungry animals,
Animals that were ready to get the last piece of meat
I close my eyes and take a deep breath
My heart is jumping in and out of my chest
I open my eyes, the flag goes down

My eyes are glued to the finish line
I can imagine myself there,
Holding the trophy with pride

But then someone comes up
The butterflies in my stomach wake up
I take a deep breath
I inhale and crank my arms up

The sun’s heat is crushing me like a giant stepping on an ant
Drip-drop
I can’t feel my legs
“I’m almost there!”
I feel like I’m going to die
50 yards…40 yards…30 yards…20 yards…10 yards

I huff
I look up
I smile
I did it

**

Do You Remember

Remember that day
When it felt like 1000 degrees
When it felt like we were living in a fire

Remember that day
When we jumped into Turtle Lake
Thinking the lake was a gigantic ice cube

Splash

We laughed
We talked
We held hands
You smiled as bright as the scorching sun

We
Were
Friends
Do you remember?

**

Where I’m From

I am from tiny, little toys all over the floor.
long soothing meows
the sound of pencils gliding on pieces of paper
the sound of Paul hysterically laughing
the peaceful humming of mom while making something delicious
the click clack of the keys on the keyboard

I am from the buzz of lawn mowing and the sweet chirping of the birds.
the fresh aroma of food
the bristling sound of the dancing trees
the walking of busy students

I am from “Make sure you finished all your homework,”
“You can learn from your mistakes,”
“Make sure your feet are clean before you get into bed,”
and “I’m telling on you!” but to be honest, we never do

I am from long, exhausting airplane rides
the clean smell of detergent
Grandmother’s amazing Korean food
Grandfather’s short chuckles
Aunt’s wondrous skills in knitting
Uncle’s peculiar sense of humor

I am from eating plentiful
cling clang of plates and utensils
the rhythmic sound of chop chop
the bubbling sound of something boiling
munching on new, soft homemade sushi
Coming out of the kitchen with a satisfied stomach

I am from taking long strokes to touch the wall first
the taste of chlorine
the splashing blue water

I am from the sound of pages turning
A million little words
The flip of sharp, clean pieces of paper

I am from small and peaceful Belmont.

**

 

 

 

 

 

The poet Irene Son is 13 years old (pictured here with founding barista Jack).

 

 

 

 

 

About theJack B. Rochester

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.