rollercoaster Woman

The Common Language Project is a phenomenal Dallas area poetry competition wherein every writer must use the same 30 words to write a poem no more than 30 lines. While it is a competition, to me, it’s also a very enjoyable challenge. My poem “Divorce” was chosen for inclusion in the anthology in 2022 but my poem, rollercoaster Woman, was not chosen for this year. There are so many incredible talented artists, writers, and poets in this area that I can’t say I’m too upset about the judges having found 30 more local poets whose work I can read and learn from.

… it’s still a little bit of a bummer. But rejection is a huge part of being a writer! And I love my poem enough to stand by it even without a win this year.

Though, I will provide the Wikipedia definition of airtime as used in my poem:

In the context of amusement rides, air time, or airtime, refers to the time during which riders of a roller coaster or other ride experience either frictionless or negative G-forces. The negative g-forces that a rider experiences is what creates the sensation the rider feels of floating out of their seat. With roller coasters, air time is usually achieved when the train travels over a hill at speed.

Wikipedia

The theme

This year, we invite you to connect into networks, analog and digital, microscopic and macro-engineered. From the cells in our bodies to the smart phones in our hands, networks fill our lives with meaning, richness and beauty. Chain letters and congregations share secrets; the weave of textiles can bear witness to the tapestries of our families. Show us the truths of fractals, find the hidden meanings of street maps, trace the untold stories of spiderwebs.

The words

And without further ado

rollercoaster Woman

ambition was a curse.
We drove Ourselves to this ride,
but when We boarded, We lost
the means to identify Our slant.
clicking up, up, up.

an autonomous belly
pleading for mercy
or at least a tangent to distract
from a perfectly unmade hem.
fitting into that dress,
the beautiful fabric bounded
but all We wanted was to make
Our hips smaller.

it’s more palatable to dwindle;
to chart a deadly path
through a carotid artery
rather than use Our feminine compass
to rise above. Up, up, up.
a single metal ladder, Our only
hope of escape. We rode hoping
to mesh with the magnetized,
but ancient wood doesn’t hold charge.

then suddenly, soaring downward
We are received by One Another.
A great joining of Our entire experience, Women
making primal dresses to wear, each
a node, a guide, to a place where
We needn’t kneel, We needn’t bend.
a place where We get to experience
the euphoria of airtime.