3 poems
by Uma Menon
Uma Menon is a sixteen year-old student and writer from Winter Park, Florida. She received the 2019 Lee Bennett Hopkins Award from the Florida States Poets Association and was named a 2019 National Poetry Month Editors' Pick Poet by Brain Mill Press. Her debut book, Hands for Language, is forthcoming from Mawenzi House Publishing in 2020. Read more at www.theumamenon.com.
GIRL GROWING UP IN THE SOUTH ENTERS THE MIDWEST
A tall man lightly chuckles
when I tug the bus cord. He sees
my sunburnt fingers: deep
brown, but inside a tender red.
Empathy is fresh, I overhear
at the lunch counter.
I’m pulling the tomatoes out
of my sandwich—cheese,
lettuce, and soupy beans.
In the Midwest, vegetarians
are the tomatoes: picked
before ripe & tossed into
sandwiches. Once,
in Milwaukee, I forgot how
to speak. The restaurant owner tells me
not to worry & instead
hands me a check. I’m learning
to be grateful. The strawberries here
taste better than Florida. Fresher,
even.
Sometimes, After Junior Year
When I was younger,
I thought your voice could
cut through my ears.
It made me afraid sometimes,
like the time when
you lifted your eyebrows
at the vulture I brought home.
Over time, I learned
to make do:
my fingers rambling &
my tongues faltering.
Laughter was what
dissolved me—more
than once—
but it taught me that
voices could sometimes
become their own
vultures.
Other times,
you were my only pair
of talons. It was me
grasping tightly, trying not
to fall from the stars
that you let me fashion. No wonder
the seventh point
is so beautifully lopsided.
Leaving Milwaukee
Field full of wishes
& a breath
too weak to keep
The sun has strewn
its clothes
across the midday sky
My hair—
dandelions,
sewn in place,
my lips
of lilacs plucked
as décor
We are falling
with hands
gripping our mouths
Lilacs &
dandelions
on concrete slabs
The empty streets
won’t take me
home,
but a cloudy hourglass
might keep me
silent