Musings by The Poet Loriet
Yo-Yo
I never liked playing with Yo-yos.
I wasn't as good at it as other girls
with their neatly-manicured fingers,
their middle one neatly dangling
a thin loop of string.
Their Yo-yos were shiny,
pretty new colors,
bouncing up and down,
predictable,
always coming back to
the girls with
the pretty hands.
My polish is chipped,
hand-eye coordination gone-
My Yo-yos always had
tangled string, dangled
far away from me,
just out of reach
after I let them go.
Their string became frayed
as they lacked their
original lustre.
I never liked playing with Yo-yos,
and I don't want you to be mine,
always having to bounce back
from inevitable disappointment,
the kind that comes from
you dangling yourself
too far out of reach
and tangling up
the distance
between us,
the distance where
no spaces are
supposed to be.
Lori Beal
I wasn't as good at it as other girls
with their neatly-manicured fingers,
their middle one neatly dangling
a thin loop of string.
Their Yo-yos were shiny,
pretty new colors,
bouncing up and down,
predictable,
always coming back to
the girls with
the pretty hands.
My polish is chipped,
hand-eye coordination gone-
My Yo-yos always had
tangled string, dangled
far away from me,
just out of reach
after I let them go.
Their string became frayed
as they lacked their
original lustre.
I never liked playing with Yo-yos,
and I don't want you to be mine,
always having to bounce back
from inevitable disappointment,
the kind that comes from
you dangling yourself
too far out of reach
and tangling up
the distance
between us,
the distance where
no spaces are
supposed to be.
Lori Beal
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Yo-Yo
Yo-Yo
