Dreamland
We lift hands in the air, disco lights blinking
as we do the downtown & spread eagle,
fluorescent orange & purple wheels
gliding on the miracle maple floor.
Every Saturday afternoon, we’re transported
to a day-glow nightclub for thirteen-year-olds,
gulping down hot dogs, root beer,
& day-old pizza. Time to roller boogie
to Grandmaster Flash & Blondie’s Rapture,
shake it down with older teens in mesh tops.
All week long, we yearn to push it,
with our booties & toe stops, coming out
of our suburban reverie. This is the way
to jam on it, step right up, enter heaven’s gate
before another one bites the dust. What do
we know about tainted love? Only the deep
infectious grooves of synthesized beats,
a glossy Playboy in dad’s hamper every week.
This is how we do it: we lip sync, we spin,
skate backwards & ease on down. Wiping out
isn’t an option. We learn to relax while we’re
walking on sunshine, let the music play,
until the sun goes down or we get our ride—
when it’s time to kick up our wheels,
remove skates on an island of benches,
hike rainbow socks over knees & thighs.
For now, we leave it behind, wait for another
lookout weekend to practice learning how to fly.
Helter Skelter After School
At thirteen I bought a black wig,
secured it with a white elastic
headband, painted my lips
pale milk. My best friends & I
scoured my mother’s closet for paisley
mini-dresses, chunky beads
& hexagonal heels, which we paraded
on Little Neck’s suburban streets,
met mostly with shrugs from classmates,
a few neighbors’ turned heads.
With our allowance, we became
overnight record collectors,
met Paul McCartney’s brother Mike
at Beatlefest, fingering merchandise
from Beatles bobble heads
to Yellow Submarine
lunchboxes & Yoko Ono’s
book of poetry, Grapefruit.
For four fab years
we conducted our lives
as though we were Beatles
contemporaries, passing through
all the phases, from the pop harmonies
of I Want to Hold Your Hand
through Rubber Soul’s poetry,
psychedelic Sgt. Pepper,
altered states of the White Album,
& the finality of Let It Be.
The Beatles were our antidote
to family & school, terrible TV,
fluorescent 80s pop,
& the background threat of nuclear war,
a chance to locate ourselves
in a better universe, populated
by purple octopi & Penny Lane.
We belonged to no one & no time.
Val crowned herself John, Laurie
claimed Paul, & I picked George
over Ringo, lean, shy & spiritual,
less in the limelight than the others.
One day after school we dimmed
the lights, stared into the mirror
as we blasted Helter Skelter,
half expecting our faces
to become Charles Manson
or the murdered Sharon Tate.
Darkness stayed contained
under a skipping needle.
We replayed the end of Strawberry Fields
until we could hear
the warbled I buried Paul
or cranberry sauce.
We were free, not fools on the hill
or Dizzy Miss Lizzy.
When it was time to part ways
to attend different high schools,
we didn’t know it would be
the last time we’d be friends.
We knew the Beatles
wouldn’t let us down.
We held a groovy glass onion,
peeling its layers
into the endless light. The long
& winding road lay ahead.
Susan Michele Coronel’s debut collection, In the Needle, A Woman (Finishing Line Press, 2025), won the 2024 Donna Wolf Palacio Poetry Prize, with three poems nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her work has appeared in journals including Gone Lawn, MOM Egg Review, Pedestal, Spillway 29, and SWWIM. In 2023, she won the Massachusetts Poetry Festival’s First Poem Award. She lives and writes in New York City.
The Marbled Sigh 