MiPOesias Magazine

Letitia Trent lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her husband and a cat named Cheeto. She is currently a graduate student at Ohio State University. Her work has appeared in 42opus, Shampoo, NOO Journal, and she has a poem in the upcoming The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel—Second Floor anthology. She is a co-editor of 21 Stars Review.

Schooling

I excelled at many lessons
they taught us: like drowning,
for instance. I could fit an entire
banana down my throat without
choking. I never could shimmy
up that rope, though, no matter
how much Fresh Prince the gym
teacher blasted. But this was
a small failure, like those cheap
pencils that slip right off
the slick brown paper. Mama
had a baby and his head popped
off, and, I swear to God, Jordan's
nose spat like a busted faucet.
But back to the major lessons—
What's in Your Pants? And
Animals in the Classroom.

I excelled at keeping Mister
Caramel watered and rested.
Though Jordan, that bastard,
told me he'd kiss me if we freed
the hamster, and I did—Mr. Caramel
ran right for the closest busted
hole in the plaster. I don't want
to imagine what happened
after daddy installed that whiskey
bathtub and mom whipped up
a batch of her furious bacon.
I excelled the very most at drowning,

and Susie at cartwheels, and everyone
but Gregory made granny knots
during camping field trips. The trick
is to imagine being a stone that wants
to burrow into the soft silt underwater.
You've got to really want it, the coach
said, metal whistle clicking between
his teeth. Mom echoed his gesture
at the dinner table— You've learned
to open your throat completely, she said,
spearing her gristle, I never did.

Listening Avalanche Poem

Listen! That's it. It
emits light. It makes
you blink. It says calm:
doves descend. It says need:
a bread basket. It says watch:
you widen your eyes. It says deep:
waters gather up and over. It says love:
faces dart between the flickering green. It says
relax: you let your body whip you downward. It says
relax: you tell your body let me down now. It helps you
release your ten tight-laced fingers from the railing. It says
tree and leaves lush between you and a distant, shouldering dim.

Love Poem
                                                      With lines from The Reader's Digest Guide
                                                            To North American Plants and Animals

You're not a dog at all.
Daily, you sleep in slight depressions.
Your warning is a headstand.
You express yourself through screams, chirps and whistles.
During the fall you become restless and aggressive.
You eat anything of the proper size, whether dead or alive.
Your kits are the size of bumblebees.

You truly seem to enjoy life.

Not surprisingly,
another one of your names is glutton.
You live on tender shoots and ripe grain.
Your long ears act as antennae and air conditioners.
You have well-formed, almost human hands.