Day 15 - SiltThere is a downward pull that begins slowly –Forty years of fine red silt cease flowing through your veinsAnd settle like sedimentary rock.Things, and you, begin to taste of copper.Lavender mists condense as you walk out to fetch the paperThe kettle is whistling or the coffee roiling when you return to the kitchen.Your lover is waiting, his beard and hair greying slightly:Sometimes he still kisses you like he did when you were twenty three.You start to spend your evenings in the ochre lightOf sloppily-painted sunsets which begin around the time the theme for Final Jeopardy fades out.Coffee cups are washed, sinks drained.Everything smells of earth and book pages with a hint of Pine-Sol.The window is filled with the amber radiance of marigolds –he likes to garden,While you are more careless, killing houseplants by neglect.You promise to stop disassociating yourself, and to write less in the second person.You get drunk less often and even jog once in a while.Yo
Day 4 - QuietAutumn began and ended quicklySo now the sun sets early and I spend my evenings in the dark.Today’s thoughts are quiet ones -Where we love is where we live and die.
Day 3- North StarIt was dark when I left work today,And I shivered as the wind slid around my bare legs.(shouldn’t have worn a dress today, says the voice in my head.)I try my best to ignore it. I always do.I swear familiarly, angrily, when traffic is backed up at the bridge again –This traffic congested tangled metal thing spanning the riverLike some kind of urban jungle gym.But still it is the northern star of my commute and points the long way home.I’m perched on a stool in his mother’s kitchenWith a mug of orange tea in my hands and a bowl of chicken soup with dumplings in front of me.On the way home, my debit card is declined.I try not to panic.
Day 2 - DetritusI squint my eyes as you kiss my freckled facemy sunstreaked hair out behind me like a bannerAs I emerge from the lake with foam and seaweed clinging to my calves.I make a face. You laugh.Longing is a savory dish we must sit down to dine,even as we cling togetherin a tired knot with mouths that taste of lemonade and alcohol.I whisper in your ear “I don’t want you to go.” The night before we left a storm broke with rain and thunder, and lightning webbed across the sky like lace. I came to where you slept, weaving myself into your arms.This is the detritus of summer:pearlescent driftwood grasped in hands worn down by sand.Filling up our pockets with stones, memories.A wall of tiny meaningful things we build to keep out the coming of the night.There are no secrets here but many mysteriesAnd subtle, half-veiled truths waiting to be made known
Day 1- Cold HandsEveryone said a storm was coming but I did not prepare.Perhaps I was too flippant or afraid to acknowledge?Probably the latter –Avoidance is my middle name.The storm’s precursor:Grey skies, and rain hissing its way up my windshield as the wipers, groaning,Flung it away.A low front settled into my chest midafternoon at the thought of leaving.Now, I sit on the couch by the window, watching the rain fallAs the cold gradually seeps from my limbs and my fingers thaw slowly.But isn’t a blanket a small comfort compared to you,Immediate and present, mouth tasting ofSour apple and blood?
Cemetery LaneDriving down Cemetery Lane Steering wheel gripped tightly, top and bottom, taking sharpCurves,As the radio host mourns the fate of Montana's coal industry.We'd go behind the school with the Grecian columnsIn a parking lot pooled with yellow streetlights, exploringThe darkness my mouth left on your neck.Driving and breaking too fastWith the memory of the way each bend winds around itselfLike solemn ribbons around the tombstones.Lying on a bed far from home Pizza box kicked on the floor and the television flickering with the sound off.I cannot forget the way your skin brushed mine.
MineThe past four years, I have been a nomad,A snail, whose house is wherever her back is.An hourglass constantly turned over and over, measuringTime until I leave, time until I return.I'm packing a bag with my toothbrush, my phone, and my fiancé's shirt to keep me warm i won't be gone long, i only need a few days' worth of clothing.Life doled out in miniscule increments like the vitamins I portion into plastic baggiesAnd forget to take when I am gone.I've tired of living out of packed suitcases and half empty closets,With a roof provided, but my heart somewhere else.Filling out paperwork, what is my address?When is the night where I can go to sleep and feel your arms around me,Waking up to tangled limbs, tousled hair and no bed else to sleep in?Tell me when I can put my bags away, throw out my arms and sayThis is mine.
BrillianceI wasn't sure if I was falling asleep or drowning. Pastor Abilay had just reached the third point of this three-point outline and I was fading quickly. "The devil's 15 minutes," my father often called it. He would sit rigidly at the head of the dining room table after every Saturday dinner and warn us that just as the pastor reaches the place where Scripture is applied to our lives, we start to drift off due to the devil's influence. I always did, and it terrified me.Pastor Abilay's sermons were an odd blend of clinical Calvinistic theology combined with the self-assured charisma of a leader whose word was law. His sermons always made me feel as if I were boxed in by walls of water and left me with a dead weight in my stomach. Just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he concluded the sermon and we moved on to the final singing. The presenter came to the front of the stage, hummed a few bars of the next Psalm, and we all began to sing. The song rolled in a rich four-part harmony tha
Come HomeCome HomeThe leaves were just starting to fall as Alexander Bartel wheeled his bike out of the garage and left for work. They had been yellow and orange for a few weeks, but red veins had gradually taken over until today, when, at the hands of an incoming cold front, they began to fall like rain. The wind had awoken him early and when he woke up, so did his wife, who glared at him in the dim morning light and rolled back over. Breakfast had been instant oatmeal and instant coffee and half a glass of pulp-free orange juice. Grace liked pulp and he didn't, so they bought two separate half gallons every week. She was just waking up when he left for work but he made it out the door without her noticing.On the whole, Grace was not very supportive. She acted as if she didn't believe him when he said he was going to work and had taken another job on the side for extra money. He always said he would help her achieve success as a writer but now she had taken the new job and rarely went to her
RavenThe raven would not say my name -only flutter its wingand settle on the branch.I watched its cockle eyestudy me and the rooftopsthat sang of autumn.Leaves swirled in the wiresas the air blisterd around meand I could feel myselffalling once again -somewhere the lightwould still remember me.
The Word RoseAnd from the blue and cotton clouds,Out forth I plucked for you -A single word rose.Notebook petals, blooming in the bloodOf scarlet love,Dripping sweet melodies from high aboveShowering us in an embracing flood.It was a single word roseAnd upon it was written your heartIn the form of a hundred rhymesPlaying out your song,Your beautiful songAnd nothing could let it fall apart.And from the blue and cotton clouds,Out forth I plucked for you -A single word rose.Poetic thorns, glaring through the galeOf obsidian disgust,Sneering dark voices of our innocent lustWhispering to us of that word rose pale.It was a single word roseAnd within it was hidden my heartIn the form of a thousand crimesWeeping all my sins,All my blackest sinsBut no one ever saw me fall apart.And from the blue and cotton clouds,Out forth I plucked for you -A single word rose.Word rose, oh where are you?Word rose, ah shining in the blue,You hide my secrets andCover yourself in her heart.Wor
Late nightAll alone in my roomSurrounded by darknessThe clock keeps tickingTime doesn't stopAnd there I layMy mind wanderingWhile I waitFor another day to come
TodayI drew a picture of you today. Not because I wanted to. Not because I miss you.I drew a picture of you today. Because your face invades my mind, Every waking moment of consciousnesses.I drew a picture of you today, Simply to rid my thoughts of you. Because I can't bare to see you.I drew a picture of you today. And when I find the courage, When I find the strength.I will burn it.
A Fairy TaleDismembered limbs fall from the skyDramatic chorus sings silken ribbonsOn the mountaintop, out there in the darknessWhere plants are withered from lack of sunAnd all that is now will be what wasAnd all that was will be once againAs limbs attach themselves to torsosWe get up and walk, smiling, into the lightTeeth, hair, skin, bone re-assembledNew feathered wings stitched to backsThe plants are green on the other sideGrowth ensured by the ever-bright light
Bitlets 229The man in the mirror was framed and hung.
paper cranes at midnighttell me the secret of dreaming -i need to know the wayto wish on stars that fall, and those thatdon't, assisting in the making of a tomorrow lacedwith wonder.stud the skywith folded cranes on wireand origami dreams strung up like beads;when the night creeps upand i can't breathe,tell me it's okay to believein wishes that can be foldedas easily as paper.remind me of how daylightcomes even if our star-peppered eyesdon't close to hide it'slight; we will not stop to count oursheep, but rather wondersfound in waking.lace the sunsetwith your silhouette;i am a paper boat folded by finicky handscast into deep waterstrying to cut a path for pleasant dreams--and because i cannot rest my eyesto find solace in silence,i ask you only todream me something beautiful.
lets play pretendI am a lion, brave and strong,I am your defence, for when others see you wrong.I am a warrior, bold and alertbut I am still a person, and a personcan still hurt.
Don't Be Like Me: The Five Reasons WhyHello.My name is Rachel for those whom may not know.And I am here to tell you about myself.The first thing is that I don't like myself.Well, my body, to be precise.My hair is too brown and bland, never long enough for my preference and always tangled.My nose too big, my eyelashes too long, my eyes too green.I'm too short, my nails too chipped, my lips too chapped.The second thing I don't like is my personality.I am far too shy in front of strangers.I am far too loud in front of friends.I say the wrong things and come off as insensitive.I don't say anything and come off as uncaring.So I'm stuck with being completely sarcastic, so I can easily say:"Of course I didn't mean it."The third thing I don't like is my mentality.I am technically smarter than most, my IQ higher than average.I can read faster and comprehend more than most teenagers should.I think creatively, not analytically.Which translates to my fourth thing.I don't like my social skills, if I have any.I cann
No ShipI stand on the edge of the ocean.A cliff-bench seats me,Silence greets me.Bleak and sullen skyForebodes a storm, but no winds blowGull-cries mock me I see no ship on the horizon;Breakers crash. The echoesOf my cry.