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Spring Break
Sestina.
BY FIVE STUDENTS in English 307:
Advanced Creative Writing—
Alison D. DeJesus, Shawn R. Gaines, Amanda M. Kiscoe, Thomas C. Lill, Allyson M. Miller—and Daniel A. Hoyt,
an assistant professor at Baldwin-Wallace College
in Berea, Ohio
- - - -
I, Shawn, spent spring break at Niagara Falls, swigging beer,
losing by the barrelful, as the roulette ball
whirled eight times and plunged on black like a tidal wave
as all my chips soaked on red, dyed with wine,
leaving my pockets vastly drained in a royal flash,
trudging my feet and roaring streams of "bleeping bleep!"
I, Dan, spent spring break not giving a bleep
what day we'd walk down Front Street in search of beer.
I was unshackled from schedules, free of the flash
of campus teeth. But time's a wrecking ball
of downloaded music, fallen snow, uncorked wine.
It leaves you quickly, doesn't bother to wave.
I, Tom, spent spring break sleeping the deep beta-wave
sleep, induced by weeks of deep thoughts, until the bleep
of recognition set my mind to thoughts of wine
and a smoky lounge, hot women, and cooled, limed beer.
The lounge was just a dream. But somewhere a party-ball
needs pumping. In the cold night, hope warms with a flash.
I, Ally, spent spring break basking in a flash
of stories, buried in blankets, surfing waves
of words, wrapped in tanned leather flesh bound by a ball
of bikini string strung through hot sheets that bleep
and flash and riot. Tapped an endless keg of beer,
guzzled but savored like the finest of fine wine.
I, Amanda, spent spring break hearing a heavy whine
expel from my lungs. Jogging around the track, I felt a flash
of pain in my gut. Out puffed my breath (beer-
tinged) suddenly shallow and quick like a wave
at low tide. I could have been with my lover (Bleep!).
But I kept running, warily, like a hamster in a ball.
I, Alison, spent spring break in a ball
of repetition and think I'm entitled to whine.
Behind the desk, with each bar-code bleep,
I checked in books. All those words with so little flash
won't make a spark till they're read, but we waive
this knowledge in hopes of a cooler, ice, some beer.
Two of us went to Canada. Bleep that out of your Magic 8 Ball.
The Fates poured just a trickle of beer, mainly metaphorical wine.
There was no Florida, no flash of sun, only the image of a wave.
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