Claire Murray Fooshee First Prize (2012)

Six Autobiographies 

Katherine Wooler

3 poems about French

The seventh French word I learnt 
was savon. Painted on tin with a bathing cherub 
and a puppy. Un petit peu de la Française 
beside the Listerine. I counted my vocabulary and imagined 
the opportunity to say “Hello. One, two, cat, soap. Thank you.”

In grade four Monsieur Angelini
asked why we learn French. “To become spies,”
said doll-faced Mandy O'Ryan. “No,” said Mr. Angelini,
“French is not the language of spies.”
What did he know? He was Italian.

My mother would always say “excuse my French”
after she growled certain words. The f-word
was perfected by the kids
on the back of the bus. They bought fucking milk 
and wore fucking pants. Fuck yeah and fuck no.
I’d stare out the window, fearing their lighters
at the back of my seat.

2 poems about worry

Once, I took my usual seat
on the elementary bus, looked down,
and saw my underwear on the floor. 
Fruit of the Loom kittens in my size. I checked 
when no one was looking  and found that I 
was also wearing my underwear. The bus smelt
like eighty-four slices 
of refrigerated bread.

As a child I would never use the bathroom
until I was about to pee my pants. I knew
I’d miss something as soon as I went. My Barbies 
could have grown, trees exchanged glances, the world
might have spun away into the sun
while I was on the toilet.

1 poem about gingerale

One day I was following my friend
through the back field, calling her name, but she didn’t
turn around, so I thought I must be dead
and I tried not to cry. When we got to her kitchen
she noticed me, so I breathed relief and poured 
warm gingerale from the pantry.