Write What You Know
Ian Adelman

Think about your father’s gold watch
the one with the cracked glass
and the second hand that turns backward.
Think about your mother’s first perm
the sheer volume of brown oiled curls
and how she burned each and every
picture taken of her.
Think about Sue standing
underneath an ivy archway
and how you walked away
without kissing her.
Think about Bobby
seven inches taller than you
knocking you to the floor
with one uppercut.

Lie
about all of them
make them work in a story
or poem.

Like this:
Fist flies and a lucky uppercut
lands square on Bobby’s chin.
Sue grasps my hand.
pulling me under the green ivy arch.
Our lips lock and my heart beats
like father’s gold watch
with the second hand
ticking backward.

Or this:
I see red leaves on trees—
clocks whose hands run backwards—
before I fall off a red rock cliff.
As I hurtle down
I think about my mother’s hair
gleaming golden curly oil.
I think about the first girl I kissed
under a green ivy arch.