Out of Order

Alexis Sears

• Editorial: Autumn House Press
• Año: 2022
• ISBN:
  9781637680339
• Categoría: Literatura
• Categoría: Poesía

A debut collection featuring formally diverse poems that address topics from misogyny and mental health to race and identity. Alexis Sears's debut collection, Out of Order, is a collage of unapologetic intimacy, risk-taking vulnerability, and unwavering candor. A biracial millennial woman, Sears navigates the challenges of growing out of girlhood and into womanhood with its potential dangers, interrogating the male gaze, beauty standards, and confidence and identity. Pop culture references run through the collection, with rock icons David Bowie and Prince and poets like Kenneth Koch offering windows into desire and adaptation. In these poems, Sears works through heavy topics, such as loneliness, mental illness, chronic pain, the legacies of race and racism, and the aftermath of a father's suicide. As she writes, "I'm learning something every ravishing day / and none of it is easy."This young poet demonstrates an uncommon mastery of craft, writing in forms including the sonnet redoublé, sestina, canzone, and villanelle. With all her linguistic skills, Sears's work remains approachable, offering readers a striking blend of honesty, humor, anguish, joy, and surprise. Drawing influence from contemporary poets like Mark Jarman, Erica Dawson, and Tiana Clark, Sears cuts a path of her own. Out of Order was the 2021 winner of the Donald Justice Poetry Prize.

IV

Hair Sestina

I’m twenty-four and yes, by now I know

I have a problem. “Oh, but don’t we all?”

everyone jokes as if it’s really brilliant.

But not like this. A slippery chunk of life

has slid on by, and still I am without

an inkling of real knowledge about black

hairstyles. Some bus driver says, “You’re ‘black’

in name, but you will never really know

their struggles.” Their. It sticks. I’m left without

a comeback (since I know it’s true). She’s all

proud now and continues on, “Your life

seems easier than most.” Gee, that is brilliant.

I’m not sure if I’m hurt or not. A brilliant

professor told me once (her hair dyed black

as licorice bites), “Sometimes, you know, in life,

you’ll want to cry but can’t. Just so you know,

the answer is to bite your thumb. That’s all.”

My cluelessness, though? Soon, I’ll be without

a thumb, a life, a man to dine with. (Out

of time.) I only care about hair now. Brilliant

black scholar is what I aim for. I spend all

my leisure time these days researching black

hair looks. I nod, I practice, hope I’ll know

a twist-out when I see it. I watch Life

(the one with Eddie Murphy), plan a life

where someday I’ll have cornrows, braids, without

the insecurity. Should I—oh no,

no flashcards. What’s the point of being brilliant

when I wear white girl hair to Sam’s Club, lack

inheritance and understanding? All

I know is this: it wouldn’t be right to call

what happened to me abandonment. See, life

can be too hard for us, including my black

father, once-Marine, six two, without

someone to speak to, even me. Not brilliant,

but he could have helped me come to know

my hair, my blackness, self. Oh, well. Without

some emptiness, what’s life? Twenty-four. “Brilliant.”

“Accomplished.” All I know is what I don’t.

My Hair: An Epic

Part 1: The Tween Years

It never knew how to behave, a problem

child long before I was. Whatever

I begged of it, it did the opposite,

a stubborn bitch. Exhausted mother never

knew what the hell to do about it, either,

and watched on helplessly while it inflated,

crackled. Twelve years old, I was dubbed “Frizzy-

Haired Freak” while giggling friends of mine were rated

eight out of ten by boys who reeked of Axe

and sweat, the stench of children turning men.

(It’s true, my friends were flawless: lovely lashes

as long as highways, cheap eyeliner pen

we passed from girl to girl, kneecaps like potholes

in ripped-up Abercrombie jeans.) My hair—

“curly” would be a generous descriptor—

was neither “black” nor “white.” I wouldn’t dare

to call it “ethnic.” Even then, I knew

how . . . wrong . . . that was, how lazy. So, I reasoned,

some things (or people) can’t be labeled. I

craved my own hairstylist who, with ease and

grace, would transform me into a beauty,

a nymph, a supermodel, Halle Berry.

At first, no one would recognize me, gasping

when I walked through the halls. It would be scary

just how breathtaking I had become,

the bullies insignificant and dumb.

Part 2: The Teen Years

I wanted to be anything but what

I was, so I invested in a treasure,

a straightener: expensive, red, and bulky.

Toxic clouds of hairspray for good measure,

too. Each early morning, I would rise

from whatever cruel night terror was killing

me, plug in the lifesaving machine,

and wait to scorch my hair off, now fulfilling

my dream, my duty really, to be hot,

and what else mattered? Certainly not sleep,

or health, or anything resembling sanity.

Did it look great? No, not at all, and deep

inside myself, I knew that. I looked just

like everybody else, though, and for now,

that was enough. I charmed my way through science

courses, wrote long essays. I would vow

to earn all fives on my APs and perfect

grades. I suddenly had suitors. Life

was just how I had wanted it to be,

so why was I so sad? I’d take a knife,

the sharpest in the kitchen, and I’d press

it to my inner wrists, never quite hard

enough to actually bleed. I wasn’t certain

that death was what I really wanted. Scarred

by childhood taunts and nicknames, I thought straight

hair would solve it all. Instead, I lost

hours and hours of sleep so I could look

generic. Tell me, please: At what cruel cost

do we conform? I had issues to work

through: father’s death, his life, a ...

Índice

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• I
• II
• III
• IV
• Notes
• Acknowledgments
• Thanks