Poetry by Alston Cobourn

                Richard P J Lambert CC



A Reflection on Self-Medicating

An empty vessel,
I wanted to be seen, longed to be known.
In eleventh grade I dyed my hair purple.
That winter I cut and burned my wrist.

Only my mother noticed.




Rooms That Had No Doors

I do not remember where I lay;
I could not tell you even my name,
in the rooms that had no doors,
in the rooms that had no doors.

But I can remember every single face,
even the ones that left no trace
in the rooms that had no doors,
in the rooms that had no doors.




Inappropriate Daughter

I’m sorry, 
dear mother, 
but you gave birth
to an inappropriate daughter.

I do not fit.
I do not belong.
I will never be 
whatever it is I should.

I frequently feel disheveled,
striving to keep many, many ducks 
in a perfectly imperfect row.

I’m sorry,
dear mother,
but I’ll always be
your inappropriate daughter.

​

Alston Cobourn was raised in Raleigh, North Carolina.  She earned both a B.A. in English with minors in Creative Writing and Journalism and a Masters in Library Science from UNC-Chapel Hill.  After several years in Virginia and Texas, she has returned home to North Carolina, where she resides with her husband, two dogs, and two cats.  Alston writes as a means of exploring her relationship to the external world and the collective human experience.

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