Life after Youth

by Amy Phillips

Once, toes gripped bark

fingers clung to branches,

the two wheels of my bike

rode hard over gravel

& guided me unharmed

past the rose bushes.

Once, day-old scabs

were opened & fresh blood

mingled with the blood

of a classmate, creating

a bond that lasted

all through recess.

Once, we smoked joints

at Union Dam with our

legs hanging over the side

of the tower, standing erect

50 feet out of the water until

we found the nerve to jump.

Once, I stood facing the earth

from 12 thousand feet above

the dirt before I dove into

free fall, the wind so strong

breathing became impossible

just before the parachute release.

Now, life is routine

& moves at breakneck slows,

the sound of the alarm

brings the reality of long days

of work & pay is sustenance

for electric bills.

Now, a car is an expense

rather than a thrilling new

freedom, & impractical road

trips on a whim are instead

planned & timed flawlessly

in order to fit a weekend.

Now, parents & grandparents

are constant reminders of our

own mortality, & steady

decline into cautious living

leaves little space for imaginative

displays of spontaneity.

Now, the thrills of childhood

have slowed to a crawl

the fully developed person

awakens from a thick fog

& becomes acquainted

with the world beyond her nose.

Accidents

by Amy Phillips

It's getting late
bladder brimming
these two lazy
eternally selfish
assholes don't budge
feeling desperate
squirming
if only, if only, if only
the phone would ring
loudly in their ears
the buzzer answers
I am saved

The spotted one stumbles
steps on me, curses
I will have my turn to defecate
just not before her
tremble all over
imagine the blades
of grass beneath me
so close
I can smell the piss
of the neighbor
through the door

life spent waiting
for food, for walk, for release
this is it
I can wait no more
the warmth trickles
spreads beneath my feet
my shame is pungent
on the linoleum
I slide back into bed
bury my head
wait
her wrath
just a flush away.

The Early Shift

by Amy Phillips

Morning is still black
my skinny legs dangle
from the plastic milk crate.

Eyes still crusted with sleep
my red hair lay in tangles
about my freckled face.

The stink of stale hot dogs
burnt coffee, mopping detergent,
and fresh sweat lingers in the air.

My beautiful sleepy mother
smelling of Jergens and cigarettes
stands on aching feet at the counter.

Men in dirty uniforms come
for the early morning cup and speak
too sweetly to my pretty young mother.

Through each coin exchange
men press her dainty work-worn hands
and she recoils from their oppressive touch.

With my thumb in my mouth
and California Skipper in my lap
I watch the yellow bus round the corner.

I move slowly from her
the stench of gasoline starts to fade
but her sad eyes behind the register remain.