A native Vermonter, Rebekah Carter currently lives in Manhattan. She has been writing poetry for twenty five years. Her work has been described by various writers as "dark," "brooding," yet somehow "uplifting." Carter herself describes her poetry as draining.

The Poems Soul of a Poet A Wounds in a Jar Eight Hours on a Bus Mi Madre Years In Training Surely This Could Be Mine

Wounds In a Jar I've collected my wounds in a jar on a shelf by my bed. something's been taken... where was I? why? a jar of wounds. a jar of bad memories I can't throw away. like something saved because you might need it some day. if I could take it out and show them... would they look and see the stains on their clothes?

Eight Hours on a Bus eight hours on a bus. an awkward walk down hallways to an elevator. I stood in the doorway of my father's... ? ...cubicle? he sat on the edge of the bed staring into sterile space. I told him who I was. for an hour and a half on a Sunday afternoon. we sat close, holding time. holding back...always. back back back back to n.y.c. I am a hollow shell of raw nerve endings statically moving through time. on the downtown 110th street platform I burst into white heat flame like a wooden match, extinguishing as quickly. no witnesses save a row of turquoise chairs. staring into sterile space.

Mi Madre how many years of steadfast refusal to forgive seem like such a small comfort now. smarty pants! got up on a high horse and made running seem noble. she did horrible things didn't she? I was right wasn't I? rent past due he did the manly thing and shot her in the head. did sweet and bitter memories spin you through life? was I experiment or accident? was I real or was I revenge in your sadly muddled mind? was I right? mi madre, mi madre you're spinning me still.

Years In Training years in training for years in training for years in training for ...WHAT? slipped off that straight and narrow I maybe was never on, never knew and no one noticed. so I learned some other way of writing my name and playing the game and I didn't think about ever, never. so...what! can I say now? if you can't read my name, wonder who this is? I'm wondering how not why. washing strange hieroglyphs off my walls and wondering how not why. who was that? so scared of life you created an alternative universe. now you just look silly in your space suit.

Surely This Could Be Mine surely this could be mine. forests of sweet, damp-soft moss, stone walls and hay fields and cool rivers of escape. if only you'd left me these. Ah...but I was flexible when lost. I claimed city streets and night life and I could rule here too. motion and reaction and a quick, sharp snap to living. and I could fit, I could fit. so I made this my familiar. up all night and moving in neon and walking in clean morning light. if only you'd left me these. but you groped and intruded. you tarred me with blood black, blinking rage. always to look back sideways. nowhere mine and everywhere too familiar.