Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Sweet Sixteen

You are the whirlwind.
Books, keyboard, Orange Crush,
laughter, crises, depths,
you go foraging as if
fungi in the forest.
Then, in a moment, magic
opens your eyes, and you fishtail,
transforming into human flesh,
to imagine what it could be like
in Morocco or in Afghanistan to live
through a day at sweet sixteen.
You sense that silence can be
a fatal choice, and in your jalopy,
you wonder what you can give or if
you can rev any faster. Still,
you cannot tell between here and there
or the future and the past; so
you ask yourself if you should
jump from the world’s edge,
while Diana Ross sings,
“Do you know where you’re going?”