My First Poetic Expression

I’m sure I titled it “The Sun”—my very
first poem. I was probably six or seven.
I was on an outing with my dad on a ferry
boat, a bright morning with a blazing sun.

I remember looking up at the cloudless sky,
intensely blue, and musing, wondering, what
the sun was. I knew it was made of gas, though I
didn’t know “plasma” or “hydrogen” yet.

When we got home, I wrote a poem in three
quatrains, alternate rhymes, ABAB.
My mom sent the poem to my elementary
school, and they published it in the family

newsletter. Fascinating I was at that time
already a formalist, maybe from nursery rhymes.

—Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Photo by alimison on pixabay.com.

My Aunt NotHerName Teaches
Me about How to Express
Contempt without Being Wordy

Let’s say I’m six or seven—I can read
and recognize the brands my mother bought
and those she didn’t, Wonder bread, the dots
like circuses, the Bama mayonnaise,
of course, less eggy than the other brands,
and I was feeling shy at first, the first
and only time we ate at NotHerName’s
and T-Bone’s place, the only meal I shared
with her outside reunions once or twice
a year, although they lived just twenty miles
away. She seemed so old to me back then,
her cheekbones, just like Pawpaw’s, shelved beneath
her deep-set eyes like Disney villains have,
the cigarettes she puffed between each bite.
So, we were having sandwiches, thick ham
on Wonder bread she sopped with mayonnaise,
and I could not bite through the salty slice
and tried to grip it through the bread and failed.
I felt the meat droop to my chin and froze
in my aunt’s gaze. Embarrassed as I put
the ruined bread down on my plate, I pulled
and bit the ham. I freed a chunk and chewed
enough to swallow, washing down the gob with Coke.
My mother sliced the rest, small bites, and then
she whispered, “Leave the bread alone.” I don’t
remember anything until we left
and I, unprompted, thanked them for the meal.
Aunt NotHerName took my chin in her palm
and stooped to look me in the eyes and curled
the right side of her mouth into a smile
I did not understand until I learned
that family and blood are not the same.

—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]