Childhood self portrait with bike, Twinkle Toes and a little Paul Simon
First swimsuit, a cousin’s,
that clung like an old woman
who’d been promised retirement and instead
given baby fat, the faint stench
of urine.
The fabric was goosebumped
and thinning, so light it’d slip off the drying rack;
a diver, tan and lithe.
Front teeth missing, and proud,
wearing tulle so starched I almost forgave it.
Beat up Twinkle Toes that I paired
with my Dorothy costume, tapped my toes
instead of heels—
diamonds on the soles of her shoes
Paul Simon says, somewhere.
I rode a bike for the first time
and tasted metal, cheeks hot
with strange achievement
as the neighbor’s dog panted at my training wheels.
But I’ve reason to believe
we all will be received in Graceland
on the radio of a passing car.
Childhood is a globe to spin in the dark,
Day-Glo ceiling stars crooning
Nina Simone, Cat Stevens, Hey, Jude;
a train of thought so long
you lose sight of the caboose.
In 5th grade, I stood in the back row
of the class portrait, dead center, looking
wringed out, stretched
taller than all the boys.
Sang Bridge Over Troubled Water
at my elementary graduation with
all the conviction I could pull
from between my shoulders,
all the conviction I could shake
from these asphalt and stardust wings.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
I sang
off key and sincere.
at the foothills of mt lemmon
bobcats pace the low, stucco fences,
faces bony, stretched thin
like gossamer
time doesn’t exist here
the rooftop tiles curve their spines,
arching towards the sky…
the stars prick the dark with cactus thorns
my grandparents’ pills
are assorted candies, remind me
of my grandma’s mahjong tiles
with their painted-on characters &
glossy coatings
we water down the sweet tea this year,
pale orange & frothing over the glass,
the sun spooling itself a few more hours
a javelina we find in the driveway,
a pigeon we can’t keep from nesting
in the casita rafters
my grandmother, sun-screen slathered,
nails a soft pink, speaks of her father,
the boat from poland, the house in pittsburgh
& it sounds like lore
a landline that sounds at early hours,
an antenna-ed TV that buzzes, constantly,
my grandma’s flip phone ringing
from deep within her handbag
my sister dives into
a green swimming pool,
back straight, taut,
that half-second
where she is half
submerged, half dry legs & pointed toes
here, every grocery run is an “outing”,
my grandfather’s dark humor
startling us like a pothole or roadkill
my grandmother swats him lightly
but laughs too, hand over lipsticked mouth
at every restaurant, we tell the waiter
it’s my sister’s birthday, they bring
a slice of tres leche & we sing off-key,
three generations in the desert once again
About the Author:
Jordan Muscal is a sophomore in the creative writing department at Kinder High School
for the Performing and Visual Arts in Houston, Texas. Her work has been published in
Octopus Ink, Buzz Magazines and Youth Be Heard. Besides writing, Jordan enjoys
hyper analyzing her favorite books and film, thrift shopping with her sister and trying
new foods.