The water turned blue, orange, brown
as I cleaned my brushes in the art room sink.
I was bristles and handle.
I was the chess club's logic,
nicked bishop, upright knight.
I was my mother's dream, so pure
and not so pure.
I was a foreign language, être
conjugated and avoir, divided
by every tab in my looseleaf, ruled
like the strict blue lines in my diary,
the relentless declensions of my mind.
I was my father's immaculate
Buick, another addendum to his policy.
I was nervous to drive to the beach. I was
the torn ocean and the vagaries of waves.
I loved my girlfriend's shy smile, the softness
of her terrycloth, her auburn hair that kicked
free from her tortoiseshell barrette.
I wanted to be the muscling boardwalk,
the stacked surfboards, the racks of T-shirts,
the shark teeth, but I was penny candy, taffy
pulled to the limit.

Grey Held

Grey Held is a 2004 winner of the National Endowment for the Arts grant for poets, and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize XXVIII by Slipstream Magazine.