Anna Goodman

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Anna Goodman is a junior who finds inspiration for her narrative poems in many languages of music, classic novels, and love of the nature in her own backyard.


Bubblegum was the cotton candy in my throat when you led me through the crowd Barbie pink was the pool float when you caught me so I didn’t drown Strawberry was the smoothie, of course, I was drinking when the seeds got stuck in my teeth Cherry was the undisputed source of the falling blossoms; a spindly, sapling tree Flamingo was the flower you tucked behind my ear, foreheads a gentle temperature touch Fuchsia was the lollipop I liked best that year, so you bought them all just to see me blush Magenta was the valentine trimmed, and the beginning of a never ending dream French Rose was the lipstick I was wearing when you kissed me.

Tangerine was the checkered blanket where you pushed me into the grass

Ginger was my hair back then, but the dye job didn’t last Amber was the Ferris Wheel where my stomach flipped and whirled Tiger’s eye was the cider, sealed with the pinkie finger of a little girl Terracotta was the rose, its thorns biting through my skin Marmalade was the awning you chose where you told me, “make a wish.” Apricot was the jam I picked, hoping against hope you’d agree Honeyed orange was the lipstick I was wearing when you hit me

Apple red was the flush in my face, always, of playing pretend Burgundy was the rush of beauty, a skeleton in an off shoulder dress Ruby was the engagement ring, glittering like a collar on my hand Garnet was the wine you said to drink, and I remember nothing after that Maroon was the ruined tablecloth when I stumbled down the stairs Crimson was the blood dripping on my face and congealed in my hair Scarlet was the nail polish bottle that broke on the tiled floor as I started to scream Cherry red was the lipstick I was wearing when you broke me

Lilac was the lavender in the vase at my hospital bedside Amethyst was the price I paid for keeping a silver thread of my life Mauve was the bruise that slithered up my neck in the shape of fingerprints Violet was the route I had to choose, even through begged forgiveness Indigo was the heartbreak weighing down on too thin shoulders Heather was the first girl you found and now her skin will always be colder Plum was the first thing I ate on that plane across an ocean so startlingly blue Royal purple was the lipstick I was wearing when I left you

Coffee is the morning breeze I brew, rumbling like earth shaking thunder Brunette is the hair of the woman lying bare under my satin covers Tawny is the fur of the shepherd curled between our sides Cedar is the sleepy contentment of the warrior soul inside Rich umber is the guitar I tenderly strum and cradle in my lap Walnut is the journal where I’ve begun to write about the walk to hell and back Cinnamon is the bitter taste in my throat when I remember a little girl long gone Mocha brown is the lipstick I am wearing when I decide to move on.


My father told me once to beware the butter yellow pinpricks in the field,

He told me, stay still, eyes narrowed, don’t look at the skinned lemon peels,

Well, I was five, and in my eyes, the only thing a little girl could want to try  

Was to spend her days sighing on the wings of a dandelion,

My father sighed too but acquiesced when I begged for nothing less

Than a shooting star’s wish,

Closed my eyes, raised a hand to the sky, and thus the match was lit.

My father watched to be sure ‘til I knocked back on the door at 11:59 pm.

Afraid, it seems, I’d be raised feral by weeds without his agreement.

Well, I was ten, and then again, the little girl journeyed to the forest glen,

And couldn’t help herself smiling in the lap of the dandelions,

My father tried to dissuade from the hours without shade, 

But I didn’t care if the burns didn’t fade with a wish,

Bided my time, tore my gown in the climb, and thus the match was lit.

My father walked there with me once, and through the spyglass of love, he tried to understand

But I knew if he could ever choose, he wouldn’t have come back.

Well, soon I turned fifteen and the silver screen held far more promise for me,

And I couldn’t picture lying in the grasp of the dandelions

Traded my winter boots and yellow-golden roots for stiletto shoes and the color blue, replacing my old wish.

Tasting drinks of lime, but forgetting my rhymes, and I thought the match extinguished.

My father said one day when I was twenty three, like a song, “Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve been gone?”

So he took his cane and he took my hand, and I wasn’t sure if either of us could stand

Bare feet to the humming and strumming of copper violins,

To the loving and wondering about flowers in the wind,

And for a moment, I am a little girl who thinks she’ll never die in

The arms of a dandelion, her lips twisted in a wish,

My father shook his head at the playing pretend and all of this,

But with two grins and two pockets full of flint, together, we made sure the match stayed lit.

A cat’s purr curdling in the sun,

A daily countdown to half past one,

A now and then trek to the glen, pulling my dress up to my knees.

A slithering snake and mumbling bumblebees

Amazing, isn’t it, how a simple ballerina twirl, flying 

Can make, out of a little girl, a queen of dandelions?