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Alexia Sextou Poem
Try to get out of bed early, try to make your bed. Inhale.
Your off-white bedsheets haven’t been washed in a month.
Try purchasing a new detergent, one of those that’s petal-scented:
2 in 1 Aroma Boost Spring Daydream Wash.
Try smiling in the mirror; especially
If you have dimples. They’re the new “it” thing.
Inhale. Do yoga.
Do yoga and dance. Catch your breath.
Go on YouTube and search up Boho Beautiful, pretend
you’re a clean-girl white-flare has-it-together pilates almond mom.
Make a protein powder banana-peanutbutter shake. Ignore its soil taste.
Inhale and purchase some lululemon leggings.
Write out your feelings. Inhale. Lie to your journal about
the ache hosted in your ribs.
Call it your “self-reflective daily diary,” where you
Write about a fond memory, your [insert therapy term] place, pretend
your year-long headache isn’t pumping your eyes out anymore.
Write about your childhood. Write about the dog you never had.
Act like you finally know what’s caused your hollow.
Travel. Book your Ryanair all-exclusive roundtrip to
Hanoi. Book a tourist bus. Go on a zip line.
There, you will find yourself, and when that stranger
Puts a conical hat on your head
You will thank them for healing you.
You will return, completely changed, smelling
Like hibiscus flowers. Inhale and call your friends.
They’d love to hear from you. Just not
during your 5 AM seeping into icy bathroom floor tiles,
or the third day in which you’ve needed to take extra sleeping pills
that made the window light look hazy.
Call them. Just make sure it isn’t during their own
self-reflective cinnamon candle eating ritual.
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Inhale. There’s still time to save yourself.
Copyright © Alexia Sextou | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Alexia Sextou Poem
I go to the supermarket
to buy some mangoes.
I’ve had five coffees
And spent hours on detangling
computer wires.
Reciting a poem I remember
from fourth grade
I opened another three college
letters in the mail yesterday.
The mailman’s teeth were yellow.
We regret to inform you
We regret to inform you
We regret to inform you that
There are no mangoes in store
Says the employee,
Eyes grey and sunken. I notice
His neon blue shirt has
thinly stuck to the skin.
I wander and run my hand around
metal
cold the fridges are cold
I open the door and let the icy
sternness turn me numb.
Maybe my face will fall off.
Perhaps I can write about it in a
supplemental essay.
What is one difficulty you’ve
had to overcome.
Well you see one day they had no mangoes
So I slept overnight
on the kitchen tool isle.
I carried a packet of Pop Tarts with me
only to put it back as I left.
In the morning I prayed for a mango tree in
Hazy misty weather.
I notice a puff of greasy air.
There can grow no mangoes here
For it is all ashen and tarnished and empty.
Look, that street where I would once turn
with my dog to go to the park.
When I was five how lovely it had been.
I remember green and summer
and bees and boys.
Now, my hands have written themselves
away – inked blue.
I pull my scarf behind my neck
twirling it around myself once more. Note
Need to Call Aunt Celine for Christmas.
Taking a walk is good for the body.
Aimless walking can be a primary sign
of depression.
Daily activity helps to relieve
stress.
Try not to let it take your spark away.
That's what they always say.
Lights pierce my eyes and
I missed a friend’s party.
Called in sick
from the lights.
We have other fruit available if you’d like.
Kindly I turn down the
meaty strawberries.
Perhaps I could buy some gum
Or whiteout.
I think about how
the city seems as stiff as I do.
In the chilled morning, before I leave.
How nice would it have all been
If I simply had some mangoes.
A soda and these rice cakes will do.
Maybe I should grow my own –
There in the sun cracks –
thread between sky and portwater.
There may grow my mango tree.
Copyright © Alexia Sextou | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Alexia Sextou Poem
A French connoisseuse, a blast, a hit,
Her hair twinkles in the night.
She loudly likes parks and
Rolling her feet in long halls
Of art museums.
As she approaches the glass,
Her hands are only as small as
Matisse’s ballerina’s shoe.
How blissfully she glances
Around the room, with a daisy in her hair.
But then she gets bored,
And hungry and says she
Wants to go to the park, near the sea.
She says she likes the view
Above the little white church.
How perfectly envious
Of her youthful innocence.
In each rendition of her being, she is better than I.
But I know by eighteen, she’ll
Rebelliously blast Mazzy Star and recite Sonnet 155.
I notice the perky newfoundness
Of her hair, short yet frizzly;
Her laugh, a little brighter than mine;
And her figure, destined to grow a breath taller.
Sometimes she plays guitar – something I never could.
And yet, in every vision, every daydream I see,
No matter how far or how close
Her image of myself might be,
One thing remains:
My daughter always has the eyes of you, not me.
Copyright © Alexia Sextou | Year Posted 2025
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