Pamela Buszek’s poetry reflects a fearless engagement with identity, memory, and the complexities of human experience. As a Polish-American poet, she weaves cultural nuance with universal emotion, creating verses that are both intimate and thought-provoking. Her work often blurs the boundaries between vulnerability and strength, challenging readers to question familiar narratives while embracing discomfort. Published in respected journals such as Gulf Coast Literary Journal and Able Muse, her poems embody lyrical clarity, bold imagery, and a willingness to confront difficult truths. Buszek’s poetry stands out for its ability to resonate deeply while pushing the limits of perspective.Today we will read her three poems.
Pigeon
She calls me her pigeon.
She could drop me off at a lake in Austin with fins and a snorkel, ready for a long day of SCUBA,
or in San Antonio so I could meander through the river walk,
following the intense smell of cigarettes to the underbelly of the city,
or in Galveston where the sun doesn’t kiss as much as it bites,
or simply across the street to her boyfriend’s house, dark and musty,
with my suitcase packed,
and a quick side hug goodbye as this was not the first or last,
leaving me to enter my new residence with a man,
on my own, knowing well the role I was to play.
No matter the distance, I would always find my way back to her.
Until I gained strength and could finally burst from my diamond-encrusted cage,
ready to live this life on my own terms.
The Hardest Goodbye
A birth certificate and a death certificate,
Issued the same week,
Hello and goodbye uttered simultaneously.
I try to memorize every miniscule detail.
The small birthmark on her arm,
the dimple of fat on her tiny leg,
the little angelic face I want to never forget,
as her skin begins to peel,
quickly since she was a mere four pounds,
and I reluctantly release her with sobs to the hospital staff.
Should we bury or cremate?
There is no right answer.
Both hurt like my soul has been sucked from my body violently with a vacuum,
I had felt pain before,
great, unbearable, longing for death type pain – physically and emotionally,
but nothing compares to this pain,
of losing your child.
The doctor hugs me tearfully,
The nurse holds me as I sob loudly, uncontrollably, with every fiber of my being ablaze with pain.
The social worker sits with me in the bed as I make impossible decisions,
I am given a purple box, full of her short life, and told to move on.
Wheeled from the hospital, arms aching for my sweet Hanna,
What is a life lived for mere seconds, minutes, days?
A pink ribbon tied delicately around some light blonde strands,
a piece of cardstock with inky footprints,
the lyrics to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,
and a tiny blood-stained hospital gown,
are all I have to remember my sweet Hanna.
Returning
I already felt the tingle of anxiety,
little hairs along my body stood alert,
every muscle in my pelvis tightened,
like on cue,
as I drove down that familiar, yet distant gravel road into the even rockier parking lot,
with the flickering letters T and E making it read HEATR.
I didn’t remember it being this treacherous of a drive,
but before I was too focused on sucking in my belly and pushing out my chest
like a rooster,
attempting to look sultry like
Britney Spears on those early magazine covers
as Brooke Shields in Pretty Baby
as Shirley temple, while a mere toddler, offering kisses and dances to older men at a saloon, where only toddler working-girls exist.
A man I vividly remember sat next to me,
A strange, older, shriveled-shell of a powerful man I used to know well,
memorized down to the musky scent of his sweat, after hours of passionate sex.
He never knew me.
I was the perfect enigma,
Always able to morph into whatever was desired,
the perfect lover,
the perfect chameleon.
What was desired varied
per man, per day of the week, per my age,
but regardless of all that,
it always involved fucking.
Less was expected of me at age 12: just lean back and allow it to occur,
By age 15, I was deemed a true seductress, like Cleopatra, like Veronica Franco, like Mae West,
I was now expected to use my hands and mouth
as additional instruments of pleasure,
My young body ceased being enough,
Sometimes they wanted me smart,
sometimes just a listener,
sometimes an artistic muse,
sometimes a spitfire redhead they must tame,
sometimes all of those at once.
Usually, though,
they preferred me quiet,
opinions to myself,
ready to spread my legs and moan,
like the great actress I was,
before I forgot how to feel.
before I put on my mask,
before my body betrayed me,
or did I betray my body.
I lost myself before I had even learned who I was,
what I liked,
what disgusted me,
all became a mirror of what was expected from me.
house lights flicker off.
stage lights flicker on.
A middle-aged man woos a teenage girl,
Still in high school,
Still innocent and impressionable,
Isn’t this trope tired?
The man and his friends tease her for her innocence,
For the fact she hasn’t lived like them,
Even though they have two decades more of life,
Two decades of vital life experience pulsing through their blood.
stage lights flicker off.
house lights flicker on.
I am overwhelmed by a sea of faces,
blurred with age,
but still recognizable,
these bullies did the dirty work,
back then,
but still today.
I must watch them continue on their path of life,
unblemished,
unfazed,
while I heal the painful, pus-filled abscesses of pain in my soul,
the wounds they caused.
Pamela Buszek is a Polish-American writer who discovered her passion for the creative arts in early childhood. She mastered her storytelling skills while earning a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing from The University of Houston as well as studying at Vanderbilt University for her MFA in fiction. Her work has appeared in Gulf Coast Literary Journal, Glass Mountain Magazine, Atticus Review, 3Elements Literary Review, #Ranger Magazine, Abandon Journal, Able Muse, and Adanna Literary Journal.
Pamela is currently finalizing her debut creative nonfiction book collection, where she examines controversial narratives that both captivate and challenge perspectives. Committed to pushing boundaries, she aims to leave a lasting impact as she continues to carve her path in the literary world.
