January 2001 / Volume Two / Issue One
Linda Wandt

I wish I knew how to start a poem.
But we don't get everything we want.

Can still smell the freshly melted wax,
the whiff of wick smoke.

I wish I liked my body more,
‘cause there's nothing wrong with it,
except it's mine.
I wish my hair was straight,
and that I'm an interesting person when sober,
I wish I was stoned.

All I own for certain are my tattoos.

I wish I was fluent in French.
So that I could live in Paris
and draw cafes and churches all day long.

I wish I had something else to do right now
or at least a person with a mind to talk to.
I wish I could read the stars,
find truths in the black folds of night.

And while I'm being ridiculous,
I wish I could travel back in time to talk some sense into myself–
I'd explain:
"Everything is going to be relatively OK. So please, put the razor
But we don't get everything we want.
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