SLICESBy Caroline Weinbach

Copyright © 2014 by Caroline Weinbach.All rights reserved.

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Preface……………………………...….……………………………………. 5

Hangover………………………………………………………………….. 11

An Ode to My Bank Account……………………………………………... 12

Alumni…………………………………………………………………..… 13

Rotten Apple..…………………………………………………………...… 14

Sober………………………………………………………………………. 15

Oxy-Moron………………………………………………………………... 16

#FitFam…………………………………………………………………... 17

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The Last………………………………………………………………….... 19

Espresso………………………………………………………………….... 20

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PREFACEBy Alexandria Cunningham

Slices is a humorous, fun, yet sobering piece, that has the ability to bring you back to that amazing yet awful college bar you once inhabited on Saturday nights, but also to the more serious moments of your youth, when drinking couldn’t heal the pain. Caroline’s voice in such poems like “Hangover”, “An Ode to my Bank Account”, “#FitFam”, and “Espresso” is a voice that is very honest, almost too honest, which I love about her poetry. She allows the speakers of her poems to open up completely, revealing the dirty details about their lives. This is one of the themes of the chapbook, vulnerability and honesty, however, another big theme is youth and college years. The title, Slices,

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can be interpreted in a couple different ways. In one way, each poem seems to be a little slice of the poet’s life, all fitting together to make a whole. However, in conversations I’ve had with Caroline, I know she works at BAR in New Haven, CT. This bar serves phenomenal pizza, which Caroline sells by the slice. This can be another way to interpret the title of the chapbook, as a little insight into where she spends a lot of her time. Also, bars and serving food is what majority of the chapbook is about, so this interpretation of the title would make sense.

Roughly, the first half of the poems in the chapbook are similar to each other in that they all have to do with the life of a college student or young adult struggling to get by. Some struggles have to do with not having a large enough income to support the expensive lifestyle of a college student, and some have to do with the struggle of that dreaded hangover after a long night of “chas[ing] the shots with car bombs/ Because nothing washes down Fireball/ Like Jameson submerged in Guinness”. If you went to college, you’ve presumably been there, ecstatic about how the mixture of liquors made you feel that night, then hated yourself for it the next morning. Poems like “Hangover” and “Sober” have this party night/hungover morning theme. Other poems placed in the first half of the chapbook, “An Ode to my Bank Account” and “Alumni” have a similar theme of college student struggles, but as mentioned before, these struggles have to do with money. One of my favorite lines in the whole book is the last line of “Alumni” which starts by stating all the things the speaker has learned throughout school (presumably college), up to a visual of the speaker getting her

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diploma. However, there is then a turn in the piece, and the poem ends with “And now we serve food for tips”. This is such a powerful ending to a poem because it illustrates how we can try our best, work our hardest for something, but in the end, it might not even matter.

The second half of the chapbook has a poem with a similar theme and voice as “Alumni”, and this is “#FitFam”. This poem tells the story of a girl, written in first person, who competes in fitness competitions. The speaker goes into detail, with beautiful imagery, of what she does to prepare for each competition. One set of lines that describes her preparation with such distinctive imagery is one that has stuck out in my mind ever since I read this poem for the first time in poetry class: “a diet of dry, chewy, asphalt-grey poultry/ with a side of broccoli, no oil no butter”. Thinking about eating something like this is just repulsive to me, but for serious fitness gurus, it’s just another part of their strict preparation plan. The way this poem mirrors the theme of “Alumni” is in the ending. “… if I lose, I will know I am still my best self/ Although I will be going home/ With sore feet/ And orange-stained clothes – / Empty handed, / empty stomached”. Although she still knows that losing does not make her a loser, the speaker understands that something she worked so hard towards achieving, could end up having been all for nothing. This realization is apparent in several of Caroline’s poems, and is sort of another theme throughout the chapbook. For example, this theme can be said to also be illustrated in the poems about drinking and hangovers because they are about having an amazing time at night, while drinks are flowing like water,

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however, in the morning, it was all for nothing, because you will most likely have regrets or be vomiting all day.

A few poems in the chapbook have a more serious subject matter, but are nonetheless beautiful “slices” of the poet’s life. “The Last: For Amy”, is a poem about the loss of a close friend. However, the reader can still see the theme of partying and drinking before the turn of the poem, where the loss is experienced. “Oxy-Moron” is another sobering piece which compares a lover’s use of prescription pills to the way that he uses her, the speaker, as well. The speaker compares the way he crushes the pills up before breathing them in, to the way he crushes her, then takes her in again, how their time together is toxic, much like the drugs he’s putting into his body. The last line is a very powerful line, which I think Caroline does in a majority of her poems, in order to end a piece in a way that the reader will remember her poems for a long time after reading them. In my opinion, this is an effective way of writing, grabbing someone’s attention in the body of the poem with distinct imagery and powerful language, and then leaving them with something to really ponder at the end.

For all the grief we have given Caroline in class about how her poems all revolve around drinking and the “bar scene”, I think it has only been because we are jealous. We are jealous of how she can take a poem about a subject that would seem to matter so little to the great poets whose poems we read every day, and make it into a work of art – and it seems almost effortless for her to do. She shows her readers that it is not just the content of one’s poetry that should matter, but how the

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content, the storytelling, the language, the imagery, etc. all come together to create something worth reading and thinking about.

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“I went to the worst of bars hoping to get killed but all I could do was to get drunk again.”

- Charles Bukowski

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HANGOVER

If you want to have regrets in the morning You should accept the shots Your friends buy and yell at you to takeAnd chase the shots with car bombsBecause nothing washes down FireballLike Jameson submerged in Guinness.You should let your head get woozyAnd when you feel like you can barely standAnd your body starts to sway with wearinessYou should let your friends pull you upOnto the bar – your favorite song is playing.You should stumble up to that girl Who you met once and did not likeAnd give her a hug, make plans to grab drinks And when she walks away, roll your eyes.You should drag your friends to the dance floor

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But not before one more shot Because you should always mix Tequila with whiskey and vodka.The liquids dwell in your stomach Until you head for the bathroom,Cut the line, ignore the girls shouting And the shots come back up And you can taste them all over again.Don’t let this stop you from ordering Another round, this one is on you Even though your stomach and your credit cardCan barely handle it all.You should give in to the blacknessThat is coming over your mind, Your memories not sticking to your brainBecause when you wake upYou won’t want to rememberWhat you did last night.

AN ODE TO MY BANK ACCOUNT

As much as I feed you, Your hunger remains constant.I give you my paycheck,Fill up my gas tank,Make out my rent check,Don’t forget cable and electric.A swipe here, swipe there, Endless pin-number punches,Infinite loops of receipt-autographs.Before I know it you’re empty again,Before I notice the dent on my car Or the crack in my phoneOr my sister’s looming birthday. There’s more shifts I should pick up,

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Which just means more parking fees And more coffee to buy And more parties to miss.Statements in the mailWritten like mini biographies Telling me all the places I’ve been.Thirty-six dollars at Walgreens On lipsticks that sit in a drawer.Seventy-nine at Target For dog food and throw pillows – My dog has since consumed both. Sixty-three at the bar On the night I called my ex.Digits adding up on paperGetting quickly digestedWith nothing to show for it.Day by day you dwindle down,I can’t seem to keep upWith depositing enough.Goose eggs and overdrafts,Constant fees deplete my worth.It is you who keeps me struggling Keeps me earning Just so you can swallow everythingAnd puke it back up.ALUMNI

We memorized dates of wars and names of politicians.We asked our preguntas and repeated our nombres.We found the value of X, squared the sum of Y and Z.We edited our essays in proper MLA.We recited the lines of Romeo and Juliet.We stared at Botticellis and Picassos until our eyes blurred.We emailed our friends and begged them to proofread.We tested hypotheses and collected samples of germs.We blended pastel lines between mountains and skyWe worked semester-long office jobs for three measly credits.We sat in the library until our batteries were drained.

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We ran out of Post-Its and dried-out highlighters.We walked with honors and framed our diplomas.

And now we serve food for tips.

ROTTEN APPLE

Train doors slide openAnd everything is greyGrey buildings, grey air,Grey people All staring at the ground Covered in bird shit and gumThat holds up the buildings Housing the greedyAnd the only noises to be heard

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Jackhammers and car hornsAnd Vietnam vets asking for helpAnd heels on the pavement Walking right by

SOBER

Tequila tastes goodAnd feels even better.The more you drink,The more you want.Why would you want toDrink anything else?It’s the next morning

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That causes you To vow off liquor forever.Why didn’t you stop yourself?You knew it was coming.The inevitable stomach churnHugging the toilet,Crying with nausea,“I’ll never do this again.”Hearing its name Sparks the same feeling Of utter repulsion.It’s only when you seeSomeone else with tequila You think just maybe a sipJust to remember the feeling.And soon enough, The euphoria returns,Past hangovers are forgotten.Your biggest problem,Makeups and breakups with Tequila.

OXY-MORON

You used to take the pillsFrom the small orange bottle Labeled with someone else’s name.Crush them between dollar billsMake them form a line

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And breathe them in.You gave that up But crushed me instead Destroying meThen taking me in.And like those pills I sat there waiting to be used.You had the controlWhile I eased all your pain.Overwhelmed by addictionYou got clean from me too.My heart aches as I wonder Who is your opiate now?

#FITFAM

I stand stage right:Hand on my hip, left knee slightly bent,Toes pointed on the edge of my Lucite heels,

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Beaming white smile contrasting against my skin, freshly sprayed.This could be mistaken for a Longhorn uniform,Were it not for my sky-blue and rhinestone encrusted bikiniThat is barely separating me from nudity. My hair in ringlets, only slightly dried out from bleach and hairspray,The hot lights melting my layers of mascara.I shift my pose, turning away from the audience Flexing my quads, sticking out my glutes, looking over my impeccably Toned and tanned shoulder with a fervent wink.I wave at the judges and wiggle my French-tipped acrylic fingers.They can see my effort, I know they can – My hours of time in the gym, endless miles Paced to the beats of Avicii and Aoki.A wardrobe consisting solely of neon stretch-fabric,A diet of dry, chewy, asphalt-grey poultry With a side of broccoli, no oil no butter. But if I run for long enough I reward myself A stick of cinnamon gum for dessert. Yes I can feel the hunger, but the one for a burger Is not as bad as my hunger to win.I need them to tell me I am the best – I look the best In this miniscule bikini, on this stage full of competitors From afar we look alike, but they don’t have my drive Sure they can lift heavier weights, do more reps,But they don’t know my patented recipe For flawless spaghetti squash, and 50-calorie cauliflower mash.They didn’t put on two whole rows of fake lashes,Or spend their birthday money on three pairs of Nikes.They don’t belong to three different gyms – One for cardio, one for lifting, one for 24-hour tanning.They couldn’t possibly get the amount of Instagram likes I do – I’ve mastered the gym-mirror reflection selfie And filtered each photo to show off my rippling muscles.

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As I saunter off stage I feel confident.This is what I’ve worked for, This is what I was born to do. If I win, it’s because I’ve earned it.I have already cleared a space on my nightstand Where the trophy will sit, gleaming with pride,Staring me in the face when I wake up in the morning.And if I lose, I will know I am still my best self.Although I will be going homeWith sore feetAnd orange-stained clothes – Empty handed, empty stomached.

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THE LAST For Amy

A twenty minute bus rideWith bladders full of beer Non-stop laughter making it harder To hold everything in.Hitting the ocean with a thunk From a thirty foot drop,You smiled from the shore Shouting how you couldn’t swim.The moon was multiplied in the wavesThe sand was cool and dark,We sprinted through the motel gate Smuggling a stolen bottle of wine.It rained almost everyday And we didn’t seem to care, Bars make great shelters So we drank away the time. The vacation bender came to a closeAnd we promised there’d be more,Never thought the next time I saw youWould be on the evening news.Now it’s all a memory – One I grip so tightly,Cherishing a sense of pain I never hope to lose.

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ESPRESSO

Four Shots, over ice Splash of whole milk,Caramel-colored,Bitter-tasting, you slide down my throatAnd run through my veins Quickening my pulseTo my shaking hands, Ready to grab the world.You force my eyes open,Thrust me out the door,Give me the energy to serveSlices of pizza and pints of beer.You keep me awake So I can fight with my boyfriend.You strengthen me enoughTo move out my things.You’re a legal drug – The dealers know me by name.Three dollars per quad, money well spent. Caffeine-induced endorphins More potent than Prozac,Cheaper than therapy.Without you I would beCurled under my covers,Lights off, unconscious and unaware.But when I have you, I have the courageTo go outsideAnd drink it all up.

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