Claire Murray Fooshee First Prize (2012)
Six Autobiographies听
Katherine Wooler
3 poems about French
The seventh French word I learnt听
was听savon. Painted on tin with a bathing cherub听
and a puppy.听Un petit peu de la Fran莽aise听
beside the Listerine. I counted my vocabulary and imagined听
the opportunity to say 鈥淗ello. One, two, cat, soap. Thank you.鈥�
In grade four Monsieur Angelini
asked why we learn French. 鈥淭o become spies,鈥�
said doll-faced Mandy O'Ryan. 鈥淣o,鈥� said Mr. Angelini,
鈥淔rench is not the language of spies.鈥�
What did he know? He was Italian.
My mother would always say 鈥渆xcuse my French鈥�
after she growled certain words. The f-word
was perfected by the kids
on the back of the bus. They bought fucking milk听
and wore fucking pants. Fuck yeah and fuck no.
I鈥檇 stare out the window, fearing their lighters
at the back of my seat.
2 poems about worry
Once, I took my usual seat
on the elementary bus, looked down,
and saw my underwear on the floor.听
Fruit of the Loom kittens in my size. I checked听
when no one was looking听 and found that I听
was also wearing my underwear. The bus smelt
like eighty-four slices听
of refrigerated bread.
As a child I would never use the bathroom
until I was about to pee my pants. I knew
I鈥檇 miss something as soon as I went. My Barbies听
could have grown, trees exchanged glances, the world
might have spun away into the sun
while I was on the toilet.
1 poem about gingerale
One day I was following my friend
through the back field, calling her name, but she didn鈥檛
turn around, so I thought I must be dead
and I tried not to cry. When we got to her kitchen
she noticed me, so I breathed relief and poured听
warm gingerale from the pantry.