Tove's Cento: Youth
Youth costs, and I’ve always kept up
on the price. When I turn eighteen the world
will be different in every way. Outside,
my daily life is waiting for me with its urgent
matters. But most of all, I’m terrified—
as if the swells from the great ocean
of the world could capsize my fragile little ship
at any moment. I’ll never get away from this place
where I was born. I’ve gone from the frying pan
to the fire, but that doesn’t matter—
we were only children then. Being young
is itself ephemeral, you have to get through
it—it has no other meaning. As long as I live
here I am condemned to loneliness and anonymity.
But that doesn’t really matter because my feelings
aren’t nearly as strong or as passionate as my mother’s.
There’s nothing the matter, is there? she says sharply,
because she only likes me if my soul is resting
completely in hers. My mother doesn’t say things to hurt
me. In a strange way, I’m all alone here, wishing
I had someone to laugh with. The world doesn’t count
me as anything and every time I get hold of a corner
of it, it slips out of my hands again. When I turn
eighteen, there will be something good
about everyone and a door I could lock. Mother doesn’t
have the energy for house-keeping chores
in her sorrow-laden condition, so I’ve gotten myself an alarm
clock. Youth costs, and I lie shaking from the cold
for a long time before I fall asleep. My mother is sobbing
with rage, continuing to sob so that you can hear it all over
the building. She wants to talk and I want to be
alone. We sit together by the deathbed. We sit close
to each other but there are miles between our hands.
The cost has gone up, yells Mother in a voice
as if heavy steel doors separated us. People walk
past outside in the sunshine—independent
people who can move about freely in the world
between nine and five and who all have some
personal goal that they’ve determined themselves.
I love to look at the little children who are lying
asleep with upstretched hands on a ruffle
pillowcase. I also like to look at people
who in one way or another give expression
to their feelings. I like to look at mothers
caressing their children. I’ve begun to long
for intimate closeness with another human
being that is called love. I long for love
without knowing what it is. It gives me
an indefinable hope for the future. I’ve had
an extra key made for it. Tonight I want to be alone
with it, because there’s no one who really understands
what a miracle it is for me.
Séamus Isaac Fey (he/they) (@sfeycreates) is a Trans writer living in LA. Currently, he is the poetry editor at Hooligan Magazine, and co creative director at Rock Pocket Productions. His debut poetry collection, decompose, is out with Not a Cult Media. His work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Poet Lore, The Offing, Sonora Review, and others. He loves to beat his friends at Mario Party.