MY STORY
Rebecca Dawson is a senior at Redwood High School and an aspiring applied mathematics major. She grew up on the beach in San Francisco and moved north to the forests of Marin. She takes inspiration from the unconditional love she has for her bird Kiko, her emotional attachment to the plastic skeleton hanging in her room from Halloween years ago, and the influence nine years of religious schooling continues to have over her life.
POEMS
YOUR PILGRIMAGE
You’ve set off on a pilgrimage
Because you think you’ll find some kind of
Holy water
And if you scrub your skin raw with it
Eventually you’ll be clean
You think you can do this yourself
Without a priest
Or at least someone to hold back your hair
The only people you’ve ever loved unconditionally
Are children under the age of three
And strangers you know you’ll never see again
They exist in between
Fragments of the mirror you broke
They are like panthers and vultures and
The things that can hurt you
But only because they have to
Or don’t know any better
I kept my secrets in a lockbox
Like wishes from birthday candles and shooting stars
But I loved you and wanted to give you
All the most precious things
Dearest Pandora, it’s all come tumbling out
I have nothing left for you
Not even the forgiveness that you desperately craved
And that I once promised
Maybe you did it because you think
You’ll always love tide pools and glaciers
And molten rock
More than you can love anything human
All I can do is ask you this:
If the moon stopped changing phases,
How long do you think it would take for you to notice on your own?
That is all I have left for you.
SMOKE AND SHAME
Spiced tonka candle
In a golden
Jar
A Christmas present
I never returned
I’m sorry
I’m overwhelmed by the potential
Of you.
CERAMICS CLASS
I am the Hermit
And the Hierophant
Possessing all virtues
Save humility
But who are you to tell me I am not something
Holy?
And who are you
To demand I repent?
I spent my childhood
Drowned in stained glass
Hair strewn across
Hardwood church pews
Will there be no mercy for the little girl
Who draped towels over her head
Positioned prayed hands
Like oil paintings of Mary decorating church corridors
While I am here
I will make daisy chains
Birthday cards
Pinkie promises
Shall we visit museums?
Mimic the poses of Renaissance women
I need history to remind me
I’m not the only one who’s real
Inside my head
A clay figure holds a pocket mirror
She’s whispering to her reflection,
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”
What is poetry, and what makes it good?
Poetry makes incomplete thoughts, fragments, into something comprehensible. It takes away the need for an explanation. Through poetry I can trust the words I write won't be taken at face value.
A good poem connects with the reader and makes them want to hold onto it after reading it, whether they talk about it, reread it, or print it out to keep with them. A good poem has thoughtfulness, intention, and passion.