Victoria DuBois

​Victoria is a young poet and filmmaker who has been teaching various poetry workshops at the Warwick Public Library for three years. Her motivation is the power she has discovered in words, and the gratification she gets from helping others improve upon their writings.  

She teaches anti-bullying, non-violence, and anti-oppression through poetry. She ran Teen Ink, a workshop for bullied youth, and even was hired to perform in a dance and poetry show with anti-bullying themes. She is a junior for an undergraduate degree in Liberal Studies at Providence College and hopes to go on to get her MFA in creative writing or journalism. ​

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“12 Items or   Fewer”

I recited my motto
out of  obligation:
“465 gas points, 
they expire in a month,”
to which they responded with a grunt,
or the occasional “Yeah,”
 if I was so fortunate.

Only hoping to  hear that I could
shut off my light and drift 
willingly 
into my allotted break time.

But I didn’t need the 15 minutes 
of avoiding eye contact with other
yellow shirted rejects
to reach a thought outside of
when to replace the receipt tape,

because there they were,
she with exorbitant piercings,
and him,
staring endlessly into my apron,
stained with crushed  blueberries,
wondering what the answer will be   
when they infiltrate the plastic seal

and she tells him,
she won’t be his one and only 
for much longer.

Its barcode made my register
release a scream that stabbed our ears,
reminding both of them
that I was consciously 
aware to what I placed
in a transparent plastic bag 
while they swiped a Visa card 
to pay the balance,  

twelve dollars they’ve surrendered before.

maybe their future holds the possibility
of her left hand, 
no longer naked,

he’d feel their product, 
years from this  moment,
warm Saturday afternoons 
would have a different meaning.

They could ignore that each of their ages 
will be stained by the moment 
I stood before them 
and told them to “enjoy” their night,

knowing they didn't need me
to be screwed in nine months.


 

(To my bully)

Can I hold this piece of rubber
in my hands and erase the days when
my best friend was stained red mulch on the playground?

Or your pencil marks scattered
on my Crayola masterpiece of me,
flying across a smiling sky,

Far before you
pushed my shadow
out of time,

compressing the tiny second
when my happiness seemed infinite
into a moment erased
in the infancy of my memory.

Why?
Why can't this eraser
rip you in half like
a poor excuse for a sentence?

But I can rip you in half,
in the world of my ink.

I can erase you
volunteering to
be my bathroom buddy,
and shoving me into a stall, 

I can erase the grin
on your sub-standard self
when you told me
I deserve to die,

I can even erase my hatred for you,
and allow us to cease playing
predator
and prey,

but in the pattern
between my words,
I refuse to let you
erase me.