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Poetry of Ashley Chambers

Left Curve is pleased to introduce Ashley Chambers, 16, to our audience.These poems, written between the ages of 12–15, are not simply examples of a precocity but, it seems to us, reveal a command of sensitivity and structure that can speak to the developing maturity in anyone. Ashley is from Kirkland, Washington.

 

Transition


Was it when my dad gasped at
the sight of me in that bikini,
Or when light straight blonde hair
became darker and curly, or when
I began smelling of fish,
Uncles even thought I was sexy
Tell me, when did
I go on sale?

 

Blue Truck


Amazingly so, all of this happened
in two cars, one blue, one green.
We sang together, and I watched
your pink lips hum to the beat, the way
your body did when you made love to my
Mother. And when my breasts came,
We stopped singing, Dad. We sat
uncomfortably in your truck, and you
insisted on making me laugh. I would
fidget with the door handle, I wanted to
jump. “Believe in Jesus” you would say,
“It’s guilt” I would say. We wouldn’t
believe in each other. And I’d tell you
that you twisted the story, like when
you wash your blue truck. The way all
of the soap gets twisted back
into the bucket, the way you were always
so concerned I might scratch the perfect paint.
And maybe you laughed, or searched
down my pink tank top. With scissors
to cut off the tag. Yes, my breasts are
larger than your wives’.


Maybe you would like to chop then off.
I like the way they feel, Dad.
They are mine, I am in control of them,
like how you try to hold onto me.
And now that I understand,
I observe your ferocious manner
communicating with my half sister.
Don’t do it, Dad,
she will want to fidget with the
door handle of your new car.
And it doesn’t matter that your new
pick-up truck is green, and that I
sat in the blue one, all of those days
I wasted grinning through clinched teeth.
She will still want to jump.
And she will be strong like me,
she will say “it’s guilt, Dad.”

 

Before the Seventh beat


When I hang my black-cotton bra on the door:
(the one with the seams
through the middle,
the one that tickles my nipples
through the middle)


on the knob
I will know its meaning has changed.


At first I thought of her bra and panties
hanging there like lifeless fibers,
from the 89 degree angles of a painting
an easel:
with an unknown purpose.


I thought to myself:
O! you do not paint, Mr. Man-boy.


But she is real and her gray warm breasts
do hang and sway in your face.


So tonight I will stare:
eyes intensifying on these threads,
that hang there like skinned animals, and


I will put on my bra
wet and cold from the washer
that beats like African drums


and I will let them sway
back and forth
back and forth
listening to a black man
sing “At that house over yonder”
and they will hit
each eighth beat perfectly.


The following poems were written when I was about 12 or 13 years old:

Stacking Bottles


Fine memories, Mom, the moments when
I would observe your technique, the manner in which
you swirled the bottle around, the same way
you used to feed me airplanes of macaroni and cheese.
Pouring that clear brown liquid onto the carpet,
the same carpet I got yelled at for leaving my shoes on.
Or the way you slurped the strawberry ice,
I can remember you, legs underneath your hips,
sitting upright and trying to draw simple words upsidedown
in the box, saying that you had not yet exceeded your limit.
I wish I could’ve recorded your slurred S’s and rolled R’s.
You sounded like Grandpa, a perfect imitation.
All of you, all seven of you, related and drunk.
Leaving my cousins and I to find the popsicles
for ourselves at family get-togethers.
And we did, I found out everything by myself.
Now I know when I called out,
and you didn’t come—you had left me,
ten years old, alone in the middle of the night.
Oh Mom, just admit it—you were so happy
when I left every other weekend.
And then you would fill up my turquoise ring with your love.
I wore it so proudly on my ring finger,
I pretended as though no one else in my sixth grade class
had the power on their fourth finger like me.
But then again, I thought that you were filling it with love,
when you closed your eyes—grasping it tight,
between your hands closed like you were saying a prayer,
grinning so wide. But you were filling it with greed—
you couldn’t wait until my Dad swerved around the corner,
the sound of the motor on his truck
gave you a rush—it filled your mind with adrenaline,
when he could come and finally pick me up.
It gave you your nineteen years of life back.
Mom, when we lived in our first home,
when the fighter jets were screaming over us,
at Hill Airforce Base, when your breasts were
large and lactating with milk that you would not give me,
I didn’t understand yet, I didn’t know that you could’ve let
me drink from your life. But Mom, now I understand
and I feel this strange sympathy creep over me
every time I think of the way you had to deal
with my father’s terrible orgasms.
I want to hold you as a nineteen-year-old.
Oh Mom, I want to hold you and tell you
that everything is going to be OK,
and that I loved you even though I could not speak yet.
You lasted two years with him, you were so young.
But I do hope that you are happy now, because I
sneer at the stacked beer bottles like criminals.

 


I Could’ve Sworn


this afternoon, my spine’s bones shrunk from carrying
enormous amounts of knowledge in the sack latched over
my strained shoulders, I dazed into the tiled kitchen.
Nothing had changed, nothing—the butter still nibbled on
by my skittish cat, the microwave still growling like a monster.
And that damn fridge is still too cold, turning cheese to ice
again—the way I do when getting that new sensation.
Suddenly from nowhere, except maybe the garbage disposal
shrunk, like the bones in my spine—I seemed so much taller.
It was as though, all of a sudden, God took the stepstool
from underneath, to test my stability, deciding to transform me
into a real full woman. Like a whirlwind of red to suddenly
give me longer fingers and more defined curves.
Now, reflecting on the situation—my lashes did seem
longer this morning when I slid the brown goo onto my lids.
Yes, now that I think of it nothing has really changed.
Still lumpy in some places, still a little unsure of myself
the way I place my hair behind my right ear.
But I am taller than the sink, and I like the way
I feel when washing my hands with all of that extra room.
I can see the world more clearly, standing proudly over the sink
and swinging my hair in delight.

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