ISSN 1551-8086
return to home search for a contributing writer

seach for poems by title

archive of previous issues submissions information mailing list online store links to other interesting sites contact us  
  August 2009
volume 7 number 2
-table of contents-
 
  home   (archived)
 
  contributing poets
  Azure Antoinette
  Theresa Antonia
  Catherine Berry
  Mary Rose Betten
  Richard Burrill
  David Christensen
  Kathrine David
  Holly Day
  kumari de Silva
  Kenneth Gurney
  Paul Hellweg
  Thea Iberall
  Kathleen Kenny
  Tracy Koretsky
  Marie Lecrivain
  H.E. Mantel
  Rick Marlatt
  Augusto Munoz
  Sergio Ortiz
  Yelena and Roman Tunkel
  Carmen Vega
  John Sibley Williams
  Amye Wilson
  Seth Woolf
 
  home
  poets
  poems
  archive
  submissions
  mailing list
  store
  links
  contact
   
Seth Woolf
August 2009
   

 

bio


photo by kevin berger

    Seth Woolf is a law student living in Boston, and originally from Sarasota, Florida. He enjoys reading, writing, playing guitar, going to the theatre and traveling.

   

 

The Gift

in a separate, sterile room they
demonstrated. my mom must
have held the orange in one hand, an alien
syringe in the other—or set its stronger-than-mine
five and a half year old skin on a counter to

bleed fructose.

we don’t remember, weren’t there. we only
watch, with dad. by my ninth birth
day, we lost the toys they bought then
brought us, no longer myself, alone—too young for
flowers, they can read him cards. to the
rescue, batmobile. this present was sent
unseen, a very different state. it was the worst
video game ever: you had to talk with doctors, avoid candy,
give shots, you can only jump, cower, or move forward.

I cried when I was angry, because I was not sad. I cried
often. yet, when my red face swelled, it was still impossible
to get what I wanted. but sometimes I got locked
in my room. around twelve or thirteen I learned
that florida’s venereal soil was infected with burning red
fire ants. carefully, if I dug my hand into the
Maxwell House tin, sneaking out one day’s worth of
needles, I could incise the mud dauber’s end. I head
out into the deed-restricted deathscape, three weapons and a
lethal concoction. water would be enough—enough to
drown them, but I add an unhealthy dose of windex and red food
coloring. finding one, I draw from my cup a driveway’s future tears.
Then I can decide who gets my gift and who goes on.

copyright 2007 Seth Woolf