MARA MAGARAHAN - POEMS

Mara Magarahan is a poet from Downingtown, Pennsylvania. She is the author of the poetry collection I’ll Be Okay, which was published in September of 2018. Recently, her work has been published in Bridge Ink’s literary magazine’s 3.5 issue, and Blue Marble Review's 16th issue.

Little Dancer 
​

​The two of us were up first,  
our trembling duet on display
while the rest of the class sat against the mirror,
ballet-slippered feet all criss-cross applesauce,
holding their notebooks and sparkly pens
they used to write french ballet terms
[Fondu: to melt
Tomber: to fall
Echappee': to escape]
 
This time everyone was told to scribble
our missteps, then read them aloud
in front of the class
one after another like a roll call
of flaws, as if their words would not be snuck
home and written across my bathroom mirror
in the hot steam, sloppy drips of water
sighing, not good enough.
Reflections became echoes
of the way my body didn't move right.
 
And my brother took me to an art museum
and gushed over the way the painters’
brushes seemed to be an extension of the hand,
a direct movement from the heart,
but when he pointed to a sculpture called
Little Dancer
the only thing I had to say was
how she should fix her legs to
improve her fourth position.
 

Half-Melted Memories
​

​Afternoon shift at the ice cream shop,
and I see a little girl watching, all pigtails and
sticky, strawberry-flavored fingers sneaking
her face up over the counter, only
to meet my eyes and smile and understanding,
which I give her,
and she smiles back,
overwhelming me with jealousy
of her youthful, invulnerable mannerisms.
Reminding me then
of peering around my cousin’s doorframe
while she wanded her straight hair curly
Into perfect rings and I’m red-faced,
caught, and running
back to mom and all things
safe and young.

Gossamer-Thin Girls
after The Care and Keeping of You
​

​Allison taught me about boyfriends
by running into her bedroom walls
with textbooks,
purposefully dropping papers and
pretending high schoolers were
helping her pick them up in the hallways.
And when it was my turn I’d add my own twist,
tucking stray pieces of hair behind my ears,
acting thankful and delicate,
a pretty, hand-painted porcelain doll,
powdered blush and batted eyelashes,
I giggled, she applauded...
And we fell, back first, on her bed with a sigh
like the brown, elderly rose still kept
in a vase on her nightstand,
drooping and helpless and hoping to be wanted.
 
 
 

Ode To The Boy In Eighth Grade 
​

​Who yelled DO YOU CUT YOURSELF
across the classroom,
drawing every eye to feast on my thighs,
my skirt, slipped a little too high,
I hope you know your words were
sharper than any blade that
ever touched my skin.
 
My body, a storm, a pile of dust,
hurricaned out of that room leaving
each and every middle school mouth
a tunnel, wide open.
They’d never seen someone
so broken before.
 
But you,
you were still smiling,
a train track of teeth
reminding me why I used to hide my marks
in the first place.
I locked myself in my usual stall,
felt my neck tilt back so my eyes
could see the ceiling and imagined
everything floating above it,
the sinks, the walls, me…
I carved my name into the metal hinges
of the door but
 
Now when I think back,
I wish I would have etched survivor.
I wish I would have unlocked the door,
taken one glance in the mirror,
and hurricaned right back into that classroom,
thighs on display,
and showed you that I still look good in red,
even when I’m dressed in my
leftover-dinner-in-the-fridge scars
worn as a way to say I’m still here,
 
The same way I still looked pretty wearing
my Mars cheeks to ballet class,
a sweaty masquerade of fiery lace
draped underneath my eyes,
My reds are not any less frondeur than the
crack and pop of a cinnamon Coke can
on the Fourth of July,
the day I get to sit back,
empathize with the bangs and bruises in the sky,
and finally sigh back to the boy
in eighth grade,
No, darling, I don’t. Not anymore.