I think I’ve forgotten. Am I writing a poem? Or maybe an opera? “I want to write” It’s been quite a while, But I had to do something to make someone smile. I keep rhyming after I said I’d not, It’s honestly cheesy. Writing a poem that’s actually good isn’t easy. “I want to write” That’s all for today. I’m glad this isn’t graded. It’s nice to have something to do that’s for me. I have a much better time when I’m not worried about getting a D.
I’m a little out of practice, As I’m sure you can see. And maybe I don’t need to write, But I want to write… When it happens to suit me.
In a Name By Jessica Manack My people take their names from the radio, Jolenes and Rhiannons and Angies,
from magazines, from girls down the street: Jessicas and Jennifers, Lees and Maries — there are many of us. But my great-grandmother got hers in a church, over kisses: Francis T. Lillie, Mrs. Fanny Grace, she was born, in the forest, closing the book on the 1800s, seventh daughter of Elmer, granddaughter of Johnston, “one of the county’s best residents,” and, probably, her grandmother was too, were such things ever noted. And then they moved, to town, and down to West Virginia, where she wore many hats: Peggy’s mom, Patsy’s mom, unmentioned mother of Betty, whom she gave away. Leader of the Ladies Auxiliary of the South Charleston Presbytery:
Fanny Grace was hidden somewhere under there, waiting to bloom (her beauty was beyond compare), illuminated only in the light reflecting off a man, her Rushmore, glowing down, stern and unmoved.
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