Two Poems by Carolina VonKampen
The cup is half empty, I say.
The cup is half full, you say.
I dig around
I find it —
I measure those
inches — half inches — centimeters
of water — milk — tea.
You’re right —
but who’s to say how we measure these things?
I could overflow that cup
and I’d still say
the cup is empty.
A mad scientist’s white wig —
a canvas for the lights.
Plastic Barbie legs bend in and out of position;
knotty bird legs pluck the guitar strings.
A Disney villainess peers over her nose,
and her eyes tell a joke,
but no one laughs.
First published in Spider Mirror, November 13, 2017
Carolina VonKampen graduated with a BA in English and history from Concordia University, Nebraska. She is an editor from nine to five and an editor, reader, and writer the rest of the time. Her work is in Moonchild Magazine, Déraciné Magazine, and Dream Pop Journal. Find her at carolinavonkampen.com.