Can You Spot the Differences?

I just can't...I'm so mad. I'm going to post the altered poems here, along with the name of their "editor": Chelsea Gentile. As I do a line by line comparison, I just get more upset. So, here are her versions...right next to mine.

MINE:

Interdit

When I was born

I imagine you were reading Salinger;

I imagine it was simultaneous:

your teenage angst, my infant struggle.

Your dreams were made of ideas

intellectual prowess academic progression-

I am your interruption.

I am the idea that chases your fingers

around and around in your hair;

I am the voice that spills your coffee,

forming perfect rings on an essay

left over from before my entrance.

I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an iPod?

By plugging our ears in,

we wired our brains together,

but you weren't allowed to hold my hand.

You could do it now,

If you could reach across

all of these rivers,

if I could stop

burning all of these bridges.

Every time I kissed you

I tried to narrate it in my head:

How did we lead up to this?

What brought your face so close to mine?

Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?

This is why you stopped kissing

(me).

This puts all the coffee

back into your cup, and

runs a comb through your hair,

slicked back with river water;

This places brick on top of brick,

not a bridge but a wall:

a solid, tangible obstacle.

I don't bother reaching towards it.

Your fingers will never

graze the rough red surface,

nor wish it were my face.

But I can put my back against it,

and sneer at all those phonies,

fingers interlocking tightly,

and pretend that

I don't believe in love.

HERS:

When I was born

I imagine you reading Salinger;

I imagine it seemed simultaneous:

your teenage angst, my infant struggle.

Your dreams were made of ideas—

intellectual prowess, academic progression—

and I am your interruption.

I am the idea that chases your fingers

around and around in your hair;

I am the voice that spills your coffee,

forming a perfect ring on an essay

left over from before my arrival.

I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an iPod

by plugging in together?

We wired our brains,

but you weren't allowed to hold my hand

though you could do so now,

if you could reach across

all these rivers,

if I could stop

burning bridges.

Every time I kissed you

I tried to narrate the act in my head:

How did we lead up to this?

What brought your face so close to mine?

Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?

This is why you stopped kissing

(me).

Which puts all the coffee

back into your cup and

runs a comb through your hair,

slicks back each strand with river water;

places brick on top of brick,

building not a bridge but a wall:

a solid, tangible obstacle.

I don’t bother reaching for it.

Your fingers will never

graze the rough red surface,

nor wish it were my face.

But I can put my back against the wall

and sneer at all those phonies,

their fingers tightly interlocking,

and pretend

I don't believe in love.

MINE:

SOLD

When I think about that house

I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:

the utmost protection and structure,

so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family

will eat breakfast in that kitchen,

spilling milk across the table

and reminding each other of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely

gather in the basement,

chairs placed across that squishy place in the carpet,

to watch old movies, over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child

crouching over the toilet upstairs

cursing whoever it was who thought

intricate black and white tiling would look good on that floor.

I presume a girl will open those west windows

and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.

She may use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,

But will she ever notice the outlines of where I smeared poetry

onto the mirrors in soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire

are filled with knick-knacks instead of books?

What if the yellow walls are painted white?

What if music never fills the kitchen at Christmas,

and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget what it looked like then,

and all I can see is what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,

I close my hand into a fist

and hear the horrible crunching sound

of old beetle flesh becoming dust?

HERS:

When I think about our old house

I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:

the utmost protection and structure

so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family

will eat breakfast in the kitchen,

spilling milk across the table

and reminding one another of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely

gather in the basement,

chairs placed across that squishy place in the carpet,

to watch old movies over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child

crouching over the toilet upstairs,

cursing whoever thought to intricate

black and white tiling in a bathroom floor.

I presume a girl will open those west windows

and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.

She might use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,

but will she ever notice the remnants of poetry

smeared onto the mirrors with soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire

fill with knick-knacks instead of books?

What if the yellow walls get painted white?

What if music never remakes the kitchen at Christmas

and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget what it looked like then

and remember what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,

I close my hand into a fist

and hear that horrible crunching sound

of beetle husk becoming dust?