This chapbook-length work features poems Christine wrote in ninth grade, including her first nationally-published poem, "What Are You?," which appeared in Teen Ink magazine.

“What Are You?”
Birds, sing your songs of summer seed for all;
sing of silver eggs and radiant nests;
of a winter that melts before it snows;
an eternal spring, summer, and fall.

Your beaks must be gilded, for surely such
music is too divine even for angels, and
your voices shatter the pride running through their veins.
The beauty of this caroling is too much!

But is music not a human creation,
owned by flutes and cellos?
owned by sweet sopranos and alto bellows?
Is it too arrogant of me to call your compositions ‘music’?
For isn’t music human and human alone?

Birds....O beautiful birds.....
What are you?

Birds, sing your songs of plumage dipped in gold;
sing of trees that scrape Heaven’s door with their crooked fingers;
of soil fresh with worms and insects soft and willing;
a spider’s web dripping with candy hatchlings that twist and fold.

The forest’s symphony, I hear!
Robins, larks, wrens, doves, and sparrows;
Cardinals, ravens, jays, bluebirds and blackbirds.
Magic has crawled and rested upon my inner ear.

But is magic not a human creation?
owned by our fickle and distrustful imaginations?
owned by the fairies and sorceresses that wander through the constellations?
Is it too arrogant of me to call your compositions ‘magic’?
For isn’t magic human and human alone?

Birds....O beautiful birds.....
What are you?

Birds, sing your songs of water holes that never die;
 sing of waxen lilies that will see the earth parish;
of a world that glitters in mica;
a sun forever reigning over the sky.

O sirens! O little gods! Whatever you may be!
Such feathers, such wee feet,
such spirits occupying bantam bodies!
What symmetry! What symmetry!

But is symmetry not a human creation?
owned by our need for perfection?
owned by our superficial tendencies?
It is too arrogant of me to call your compositions ‘symmetry’?
For isn’t symmetry human and human alone?

Birds....O beautiful birds.....
What are you?


“A Guitar”
In the corner of my room lies a golden guitar,
with splendid silver strings.
A guitar, abandoned.
A guitar, played no more.

The dancing of my fingers faded that winter day,
The winter day my life galloped away.
It held the reins and galloped, galloped, galloped away.
No saddle.
No helmet.
Nothing....but reigns and a horse as fierce as the night.

I never played the guitar.
Not like him.
I was merely a player, who flirted, but seeked no commitment.

I thought I played it. And I thought I played it well.

But we’re all wrong sometimes.



“Starfish”

Fragile as the gull’s eggs sheltered by the shore;
Limp as shattered bones within a blackened wing;
Speckled like the evening with stars, glowing gold;
Starfish in my palm, never wither and grow old.


“What Rain Is”
Have you ever seen the rain as I have?
It isn’t what you say it is.
It isn’t sad.
Or depressing.
It doesn’t ruin anyone’s day.
It isn’t a cat, nor or is it a dog.
Or anything else, for that matter.
It’s rain.
Just water from the sky,
feeding the plants.....even you and I.


“Azaleas”
Days dimpled with the sun’s sweet songs,
he swoons the sparrows and their dreams
to sallow caves of mourning.

Fragrant were the azaleas.
Such captivating flowers!
The azaelias at the cave’s door.

Shimmering were the sparrows---
golden were their bantam wings---
as they entered the lonely lair.

Dipping, darting, diving
through the promises of the sun,
as if he had granted them Eden.

O little birds!
Don’t you know that the greatest deception 
lies in fair smiles and charming words?

Poor little birds!
O! Poor little birds....


“Cocoon”
Look at yourself!
Slinking through the forest
as if the shadows might spring out and catch you.

‘Beware of the beasts,’ mother would say.
‘Beware of the strangers,’ mother would croon.
Look at yourself! Prisoner of your own cocoon!


“Spring”
As the sunlight streams through my soul
the sorrow spilling from my heart 
is dammed.

When all the world’s breathing pink and blue,
all the memories start flooding
my dreams.

Spring is when you’re here again,
an apparition no more,
Sweet Child.

You’re the bird at my window,
you’re the red rose at my door,
gone for so long.

But spring is when you’re here again.


“Washed Ashore”
Withering in the sand,
wrapped in algae wreathes;
Here lies the dying gem of blue and gray.

Sun rotting its flesh,
no breath in its lungs;
Here lies the dying gem of coral rock and mermen

Salt wedged in its wounds,
flies shedding their eggs;
And here lies the dying gem,
the dying gem washed ashore.


“Broken”
Dampened are the flowers after the light rain.
Before, they withered and rested their heads on the sand in despair.
Come the jungle clouds and the summer storms,
then broken are the flowers.
And broken are their bones.



“Morning Rain”
Beads of blood trickling from the seams of every heart
As if the stitches God created were not tight enough
To contain such purple pain

Purple pain that gushes from the wounds of our brothers and sisters
Yellow ribbons streaming outside the homes of peeling paint
Once glowing with the warmth of family
Now plagued with the pall of uncertainty
Uncertainty that lingers like coffee stains and unpaid phone bills

I see the morning rain, but it’s not the rain I’m used to
It slithers from the sky
Like the serpent it is
Scales dimmed by the glory of war

It’s a rain blackened by sin
Blackened by death
Blackened by each spear, each bullet, each knife twisted in the lung of man
An abortion of his own species



“Where Have You Been All Year?”
Evening breeze stirs my skin,
with star-speckled wonder
in my eyes.
Willows dance beneath the moon
of yellow and gold so soft.
Summer, where have you been all year?

Dew glazed across the field,
as if gems rained from the sky
and each blade of grass was crystallized 
into splendid spirit’s spears.
Summer, where have you been all year?


“The Flower’s Spaniels”
The flower’s spaniels imbue the garden,
fairies fragile as the night.
Their wings of glass sequester the evening,
slicing the still summer air.

I rest among purple petals and worm beds,
mist wrapping my body in the fragrance of a rose.

The feathered engimas sing their sweet songs,
blue silhouettes in the sky.
The maidenly moon hangs among the stars,
with milk splashed across her cheeks.
I marvel at it all: each leaf,
each pebble, each blade of grass.

I rest among purple petals and worm beds,
mist wrapping my body in the fragrance of a rose.


“Underground”
Summer seeps through the soil, 
melting through pebbles and twigs to worm beds below.

Here, blindness is a blessing.

The world is shrouded in black, with nothing to see,
only to feel: the cool clay beneathe your belly and the still September air creeping 
through your lungs.
Grass roots tickle your back as you burrow through the ground,
finally reaching the end of the tunnel
and tumbling into a bowl of dirt below.
You become
tangled,
tangled,
tangled
with your neighbor’s bodies.
You know nothing of them, save for the texture of their skin;
they are all the same: silky, slimy, and smooth.

Here, blindness is a blessing.



“My Nest”
Sometimes I sit here.
I sit here alone.
Or at least I pretend that is how I am. Alone.
But people stream back and forth, like silver herring.
Like geese to icy lakes, who grow restless and fly back home again to their crumpled, little nests.
If only my crumpled, little nest was farther from theirs.
I would never explore the icy lakes.
The tipping boats.
The New England chowder houses.
I would sleep here forever
in my own crumpled, little nest.


“Violets and Dew”
Seasons slide smoothly
from spring to summer,
from purple to green,
from violet to dew.
Mother Rain transforms into Father Drought.
Her cloak, sage and steaming in heat,
all covered in violet and dew.


“Self”
I said to myself today, ‘Self, who are you?’
I pressed my nose to the mirror ‘til it fogged up.
But there was no reply.
Perhaps I am nobody.

No, I am somebody.
I marvel at each snowflake.
I dance and sing to myself.
I drink the dew off of roses.
You must be somebody to do that.
After all, nobodies don’t dream,
and dreaming is something I do quite well.


“Snail Shells”
Rocks of dew and vines rest beneath my feet,
as round as the abandoned snail shells in my garden.
The peppers shelter the smooth, little shells,
like rain clouds shelter children from the summer sun.

I was sheltered by my mother;
still am today.
There are too many summer suns in our world,
and heat blisters cause too much pain.



“Empress of the Skies”
If I were empress of the night,
the skies would spit stars into the hands of children.
Boys and girls would wander through the village, 
with constellations spilling from their palms.
Once, duck’s eggs were their treasure,
the buc choi  in their little soups.
Now the summer has yielded something new, 
something new to trap in the bamboo chests beneath their beds. 
What envy hath the owl!
All her life she has yearned for Orion.
The children hold it all....and she flies away, with an empty beak.



“Dragonfly”
God’s toy of glass and
steel; Amber appendages
cry for tears of oil.


"Children of Silence"
Rocks, children of silence, forgive me for my pondering;
forgive me for my mind's tendency to go a-wandering.
Its habits stray from the normal imagination.

The leaves peeking out from beneathe your belly caught my eye;
The salamander tail, the chipped pebble, the broken glass, my ring.
The ring that was given to me as a gift.
Yes, they all caught my eye.

Would you move?
Do you mind rolling over?
Just an inch or two, my dear.
I have not seen these things for so very long and....
I need to.
I need to touch the past.
I need to....
I just need to.

Rocks, children of silence, forgive me for my pondering;
forgive me for my mind's tendency to go a-wandering.
Its habits stray from the normal imagination.