Her first kiss was with a cigarette
singeing a hole through her shirt,
sparking a fire in the small of her back
as she rolled in a field with a boy
fumbling at the clasps of her bra,
drunk and nervous and laughing
with their breaths forming clouds
for the moon to shine through.
She told me the story the day we met,
and I wished I was the boy
until the day she died, and I realized
what might have been lost.
not a lot i'd consider changing. i would like to take a breath during the first stanza though. at present it feels like it's relying on enjambment a little to much. without changing the end-jambs, a period or two might make them pop more and feel less forced. i enjoyed the read as a whole. it holds more than a little melancholy.
(05-16-2019, 06:38 AM)Wjames Wrote: [ -> ]Her first kiss was with a cigarette
singeing a hole through her shirt,
sparking a fire in the small of her back
as she rolled in a field with a boy
fumbling at the clasps of her bra,
drunk and nervous and laughing
with their breaths forming clouds
for the moon to shine through.
She told me the story the day we met,
and I wished I was the boy
until the day she died, and I realized
what might have been lost.
(05-16-2019, 06:38 AM)Wjames Wrote: [ -> ]Her first kiss was with a cigarette
singeing a hole through her shirt,
sparking a fire in the small of her back
as she rolled in a field with a boy
fumbling at the clasps of her bra,
drunk and nervous and laughing
with their breaths forming clouds
for the moon to shine through. ......, this is a wonderful line, the whole point of
The poem
She told me the story the day we met,
and I wished I was the boy
until the day she died, and I realized
what might have been lost.
S2 feels flat after S1.
I was expecting a twist, an insight at the end, but there was no such payoff. Or maybe I’m missing something
(05-16-2019, 06:38 AM)Wjames Wrote: [ -> ]Her first kiss was with a cigarette
singeing a hole through her shirt,
sparking a fire in the small of her back
as she rolled in a field with a boy
fumbling at the clasps of her bra,
drunk and nervous and laughing
with their breaths forming clouds
for the moon to shine through.
She told me the story the day we met,
and I wished I was the boy
until the day she died, and I realized
what might have been lost.
I can't help but feel like I've read this before. Have you posted this here before, or something similar? I've got nothing to give in a line-by-line, but just a few comments.
Imagery carries the first eight lines quite well. The mostly consistent line lengths gives it a pretty static rhythm, very musical, which I expect for you. It works well for those first eight lines, again, helping to carry the reader through them. The last four, however, feel as if they lack any weight between the words. They say what they say, and I can't get anything more but the rhetoric of the final "what might have been".