Organic Chemistry

The Friday before the July 4th weekend,
I bought some Tokay at the State Store.
The wine is named for the region of Hungary

where the grapes are grown. I drank only
respectable wines. I’d seen the empties
neatly stacked against the walls on the street.

Copyright: josepijosep

Back then, I watched the sidewalk, always
walked with my head down. The empty
bottles were mostly beer, but there were

a few bottles of Thunderbird, MD 20/20.
The Tokay was thick and sweet.
It went down easily, glass after glass.

I was memorizing the reaction steps
to synthesize complex hydrocarbons.
On the day of my final, the trains ran on

a holiday schedule; they skipped my stop.
I walked all the way to 8th and Market,
stepping over streamers, wading through

piles of confetti. I recognized the ginkgo
trees from the pictures in my Biology text.
They lined up between curb and sidewalk,

scrubbing the air with their two-lobed leaves.
Exams should be taken in the same state
in which one studies, but I aced my test sober.

About this poem: This poem selected itself for this week’s blog because it just got published. You can find this poem online at Trampoline (scroll down to poem #6). I say it selected itself, but I’m the one pressing the “send” button. I feel ambivalent about it. In the past eight years, I submitted it 16 times before it was accepted. When I found the right journal for it, it was accepted enthusiastically within seven days of submission. It’s a piece of autofiction, based on real events from my life, but it’s not entirely true. I’m reminded of something my teacher and mentor Peter Murphy says every time he gives out a prompt. “Tell a secret, tell a lie, and never tell anyone which is which.”

I’m reading Brené Brown’s Daring Greatly for an online book club. Brené says it’s easier to be brave and vulnerable if you don’t equate your self-worth with your creative output. It’s a good reminder. You may love this poem, you may hate it, or you may feel indifferent toward it. You may even feel ambivalent, like me. Tell me how this poem hits you, and don’t worry. After hundreds of rejections, I don’t take any feedback personally.