Maya Wright (17)
Carnis
Honorable Mention in the Hips Contest
i never go back to that vacant parking lot / in my heart, it is filled with flowers / all the witnesses are dead / even the concrete is receding into carnations / and my mouth carries the latin derivative of “carnis” like a peppermint / flesh. / i try not to find meaning in this, / because it has been years / and i never do go back, but if i did, i’d find two sets of hips / in the backseat of a car that now belongs to someone else. /
i don’t blame you entirely / but you should have known / and maybe you did but we were young and i was easier to love like that / with your eyes pressed shut / pretending like i was still there / pretending it was more than flesh / and i was not only the frame of a girl. / yes: at first i blamed you / but i blamed the concrete, too / i blamed the pale orange streetlights / and the overhanging trees / and the moon. / in the end i was the one who left her there / begged some divination to take the memory / make that girl a separate entity. / this is a love letter to her / to a body who has not yet been corrupted / that is still unscathed and covered in daffodils / honeysuckle and lilacs / hanging in the moment before life transpired. / it’s me, love, it’s me. / still (even after) /
yes i never went back / and i never leave / we don’t live with our ghosts /
we live through them.
Maya is seventeen, living on a little island on the East Coast. During long winters she dabbles in embroidery and film photography. She also adores Chinese food, lightning, and of course poetry.
Carnis
Honorable Mention in the Hips Contest
i never go back to that vacant parking lot / in my heart, it is filled with flowers / all the witnesses are dead / even the concrete is receding into carnations / and my mouth carries the latin derivative of “carnis” like a peppermint / flesh. / i try not to find meaning in this, / because it has been years / and i never do go back, but if i did, i’d find two sets of hips / in the backseat of a car that now belongs to someone else. /
i don’t blame you entirely / but you should have known / and maybe you did but we were young and i was easier to love like that / with your eyes pressed shut / pretending like i was still there / pretending it was more than flesh / and i was not only the frame of a girl. / yes: at first i blamed you / but i blamed the concrete, too / i blamed the pale orange streetlights / and the overhanging trees / and the moon. / in the end i was the one who left her there / begged some divination to take the memory / make that girl a separate entity. / this is a love letter to her / to a body who has not yet been corrupted / that is still unscathed and covered in daffodils / honeysuckle and lilacs / hanging in the moment before life transpired. / it’s me, love, it’s me. / still (even after) /
yes i never went back / and i never leave / we don’t live with our ghosts /
we live through them.
Maya is seventeen, living on a little island on the East Coast. During long winters she dabbles in embroidery and film photography. She also adores Chinese food, lightning, and of course poetry.