A poem from a new Writers' Weir poet: Thunder Mountain High School senior Jasz Garrett.
Writers' Weir: seasonal secrets 112917 AE 1 By Jasz Garrett A poem from a new Writers' Weir poet: Thunder Mountain High School senior Jasz Garrett.

Photo by Jasz Garrett

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Story last updated at 11/29/2017 - 7:45 pm

Writers' Weir: seasonal secrets

 Naked winter dresses me with her nostalgia.

Potlucks and broken swing sets,

baby blue cabins and eagle intellect.

The Smiths lull the night,

I taste bee stings, cigarette rain;

The kiss hiding behind your fist.

People tell me I have a killer whale personality,

I say, “You just haven’t enough grit.”

By Auke, I scrap together goodbye letters.

I rip them apart as quickly as they are finished, redundant cursive.

My tea has gone cold as my friends and I fret about college and honeymoon stage jitters.

I pray to the heron,

the slipping snow,

the old man with no ride home.

I pack a mask for school,

whiskey and Anne Sexton for after.

I instruct my niece how to stay forever young, tell her

my mother’s mosaics are crystals in her eyes.

I wait to date until I am out of Juneau,

away from where people know me for my mistakes,

my brutal truths,

my aspirations that seem too good for them.

Until I am understood as out of the closet,

and not in a phase,

until I know myself enough to know someone else.

In November, we mull over absent fathers, second semester

epidemics, and feminist hurricanes.

As writers, we buck the tide,

we don’t believe in luck.

At 16, I still don’t understand a lot,

but I know I am good.

I know the world has good,

I know you have good.

And even this winter,

dark, sad, possessive,

she has good too. 

— Jasz Garrett is graduating this year from Thunder Mountain High School. She enjoys using juxtapositions of time and senses in her poetry to conveyemotions. She grew up in Juneau, loves nature, and wants to pursue marine biology.