Start Time: 02:59
End Time: 04:27
Tracy K. Smith, an American poet laureate and Pulitzer-prize winning author, reads Aimee Nezhukumatathil's poem, "When I Am Six." The poem captures fond memories of childhood: running in the garden, the coppery taste of water from a hose, and sneakily gluing your mother's lipstick together.
Publish Date: Feb 19, 2021
Tracy K. Smith, an American poet laureate and Pulitzer-prize winning author, reads Aimee Nezhukumatathil's poem, "When I Am Six." The poem captures fond memories of childhood—age six, specifically—the coppery taste of water from a hose, gluing your mother's lipstick together, and running in the garden.
Today's poem is when I am six. By Amy Nisi COMMA TATTLE Chicago My mother waters the tomato and pepper plants. I steal drinks from the penny taste of the garden hose. It is my favorite drink. I am six and think to cross the street by myself from time to time, but never dio. I am six. My sister is five, and we hide inside clothing racks at the store just to feel the black sick. Fill our round bellies when we get lost. Lost, lost from our mother. I am six and I am laughing with a mouthful of cashews. I think nuts is the funniest word I have ever heard. I am six on. I break all my mother's lipsticks and glue them together and put them back in her bathroom drawer. She'll never notice. Sometimes I find sad envelopes, the ones with red and blue stripes, meaning these envelopes fly meaning thin feathers, meaning bird with a little worm in the beak envelopes from her father. I think she snatches them from my hand and says, No, no. Where did you get these? Now? Put them back