Wandering moments.
Wrapping round my fingertips.
Sliding
up the veins in my arms.
Coating my nails in dreamy slickness.
Slippery melodies sung breathless.
Rushing over my shoulders
in waves wound golden
Flowing down my chest,
my hips,
my legs,
Into the ground…
worn smooth
Beneath my feet.
Sneaking up the curve of my neck,
To push its way
between my teeth.
Resting cool between my molars.
Silencing my tongue.
Stretching fingers up the back
of my throat.
Tingling in my sinuses.
Reaching for the nerves behind my retinas,
soaking up color.
Expanding into my skull,
my lungs,
Wrapping my ribs in stretch denim.
Rough to the touch.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Inspirational Organics (Whitman Poem)
Organically speaking, of course, I tell you my secrets.
Lying by the riverside with the sun on my skin.
Twirling fingers through water twisting daintily between smooth stones,
On its way to the sea.
I take the world to my heart and breathe you in.
Your essence binds me,
Holds me to myself,
As I rush recklessly on toward new ideas.
Inhaling the woodsy scent of your thoughts.
This is eternity.
This soft pressure in my skull that lays me back.
Back into pulsed memories heavy with the smell of your skin,
The exhalations of sighed breaths that play hide and seek with the shadows of trees in summertime.
Twisted fingers to wrap us in pure selfishness and make us whole.
The sycamores rustle and sweep the sky,
Raining pieces of their wisdom to catch in my hair.
The grass whispers secrets in my ears and the stream slips softly to the sea.
Lying by the riverside with the sun on my skin.
Twirling fingers through water twisting daintily between smooth stones,
On its way to the sea.
I take the world to my heart and breathe you in.
Your essence binds me,
Holds me to myself,
As I rush recklessly on toward new ideas.
Inhaling the woodsy scent of your thoughts.
This is eternity.
This soft pressure in my skull that lays me back.
Back into pulsed memories heavy with the smell of your skin,
The exhalations of sighed breaths that play hide and seek with the shadows of trees in summertime.
Twisted fingers to wrap us in pure selfishness and make us whole.
The sycamores rustle and sweep the sky,
Raining pieces of their wisdom to catch in my hair.
The grass whispers secrets in my ears and the stream slips softly to the sea.
Bringing Back the Dead
I stood in the middle of the kitchen floor and counted my breaths. The sun through the window was warm on the side of my face but the laminate tile under my toes chilled my skin. I listened to the house creak sleepily and shift with the passage of insects in the ground beneath its foundations, as if it had an itch it couldn’t quite reach to scratch.
The air seemed empty. The scent of tobacco had long since faded and the echo of his laughter had stilled. His image had ceased to replay in my head, and I wondered when that happened. I can’t remember anymore.
But I remembered the day I heard it. The news. That he was gone. The Valentines decorations were still on the table and I could recall exactly what I had written on his birthday card. I used blue pen, because he always did.
My mother had walked in the door and I knew. Something about the way her shoulders met her neck that day told me with more certainty and sorrow than words ever brought. I had stood on this floor and listened to the tears drip from my eyelashes. Waited for the squeal of his stool by the counter as he sat down to pour himself one last drink. Smoke the one last cigarette he must have craved after giving them up to the tar that ate his lungs.
The stool never moved.
And now I stood. Slightly to the right of where my uncle dropped the screwdriver. I could hardly picture him anymore.
The mirror on the wall reflected my startled features when I heard the floor behind me creak. It was like a horror movie take. When the character on screen turns in slow motion. Multiplying the tension until your skull is ready to explode. That moving through water feeling when you don’t really want to see what’s behind you. It seemed I turned that slow.
I turned so slow that when I finally got him in my sights I was almost prepared. Almost didn’t jump, almost didn’t gasp. Almost.
“What are you afraid of sweet pea?” he said.
I was five again. My head barely brushed the underside of the kitchen table and I looked up at him through eyes glazed with hero worship.
“I’m not afraid Papa. I was waiting for you.”
“I know you were sweet pea. I’m here. Now where’s my hug?”
The air seemed empty. The scent of tobacco had long since faded and the echo of his laughter had stilled. His image had ceased to replay in my head, and I wondered when that happened. I can’t remember anymore.
But I remembered the day I heard it. The news. That he was gone. The Valentines decorations were still on the table and I could recall exactly what I had written on his birthday card. I used blue pen, because he always did.
My mother had walked in the door and I knew. Something about the way her shoulders met her neck that day told me with more certainty and sorrow than words ever brought. I had stood on this floor and listened to the tears drip from my eyelashes. Waited for the squeal of his stool by the counter as he sat down to pour himself one last drink. Smoke the one last cigarette he must have craved after giving them up to the tar that ate his lungs.
The stool never moved.
And now I stood. Slightly to the right of where my uncle dropped the screwdriver. I could hardly picture him anymore.
The mirror on the wall reflected my startled features when I heard the floor behind me creak. It was like a horror movie take. When the character on screen turns in slow motion. Multiplying the tension until your skull is ready to explode. That moving through water feeling when you don’t really want to see what’s behind you. It seemed I turned that slow.
I turned so slow that when I finally got him in my sights I was almost prepared. Almost didn’t jump, almost didn’t gasp. Almost.
“What are you afraid of sweet pea?” he said.
I was five again. My head barely brushed the underside of the kitchen table and I looked up at him through eyes glazed with hero worship.
“I’m not afraid Papa. I was waiting for you.”
“I know you were sweet pea. I’m here. Now where’s my hug?”
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
7:53
Purple sky smells of peachy shadow
Frantic
With a show of storm
Running vibration in my bones
Standing my skin in pinpricks
With ozone sinking on the air.
And the ripples on the pond
slide in sequence to lap the bottoms of my feet
To send my veins rushing
when
the prickle
of wetness
hits my hair
roots.
And the flash behind my eyelids flames the sky.
The trees rustle and groan
with the weight of restless wind
Complaining in the rumble of the earth
and the whisper of cloud conversation.
We sway to the movement of the storm.
Frantic
With a show of storm
Running vibration in my bones
Standing my skin in pinpricks
With ozone sinking on the air.
And the ripples on the pond
slide in sequence to lap the bottoms of my feet
To send my veins rushing
when
the prickle
of wetness
hits my hair
roots.
And the flash behind my eyelids flames the sky.
The trees rustle and groan
with the weight of restless wind
Complaining in the rumble of the earth
and the whisper of cloud conversation.
We sway to the movement of the storm.
Silhouette
And your misty silhouette soaks into my eyelashes.
Palms stained in charcoal and caked in mud…
Fingers clawed.
Your nose was too long,
slightly crooked,
And your mouth turned down in the corners.
You rarely showed your teeth.
Your eyes were dull.
Lightly filmed with years and cynicism.
The world was always your enemy,
And your tongue was sharp.
I used to look at you.
Trace the lines of you features.
Outline your shadow in the dirt.
You refused to look at me.
Stared at anything else when I spoke…
Sent you gaze to roam walls,
paper stained and peeling.
Past broken ceramic,
Dust three layers thick.
But never toward me.
Never at my face.
Never to meet my eyes.
I was invisible.
Your eyes were blue.
Palms stained in charcoal and caked in mud…
Fingers clawed.
Your nose was too long,
slightly crooked,
And your mouth turned down in the corners.
You rarely showed your teeth.
Your eyes were dull.
Lightly filmed with years and cynicism.
The world was always your enemy,
And your tongue was sharp.
I used to look at you.
Trace the lines of you features.
Outline your shadow in the dirt.
You refused to look at me.
Stared at anything else when I spoke…
Sent you gaze to roam walls,
paper stained and peeling.
Past broken ceramic,
Dust three layers thick.
But never toward me.
Never at my face.
Never to meet my eyes.
I was invisible.
Your eyes were blue.
Everyday Occurences
The asbestos tiles flash beneath my feet. I’ve got to hurry. I’ve got just one period, only forty minutes, and I’ve got so much to do. I’ve got to make copies. Lots of copies. Because every school that I’ve applied to need all of the things I haven’t handed in yet by Friday. Not enough time. I’ve got to send the copies to the schools or else oops, no college for me. It all piles.
The air stirred by my hectic passing sends the short pieces of hair around my face to tickle my cheekbones. Getting in my eyes. I can feel it starting. That weight on my skin that sinks my chest in. Wraps my lungs in cotton gauze, itching. Binds the inhalations and exhalations of my hurried breaths as I try to return the oxygen in my bloodstream to a normal level. Gasping. There’s never enough time.
The pulse of my shoes as they beat their rapid rhythm against the tile, asbestos safe behind its repeatedly renewed coat of sealant, sends my heart to dance along in my footsteps. Palpitating against my sternum. I’m almost there. I can see the door waiting for me. Silent in its ever-present opportunity. Giving no hint at my welcome.
The metal handle, cold beneath my hands, swings the door open in smooth acquiescence. I wish everything would go as smoothly.
“Hi, I need to use the copy machine.”
“Why?”
“Um, I need to make copies…”
“Of what?”
“These papers.”
“All of those?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“That many?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are they?”
“Recommendations and stuff…”
“Oh, well. Do you know how to use the machine?”
“Not really, but if you show me I can do the rest.”
“Well, okay.” Her eyes hold distrust like an old friend. Someone she’s grown to depend on. I wonder how many kids lie to her everyday. If I had a nickel… Well you know. I’d be rich as hell.
“Alright, so you put the paper in face down, line it up with the little red arrow. See it? Then press start.”
“What if I need to make more than one copy?”
“Just type in the number before you press start. But afterward, make sure you press the ‘reset’ button so it goes back to ‘one’. Don’t forget.” I imagine her horror at the possibility of the waste of paper from printing an extra copy or two. It might end her world.
Only thirty minutes left. And I’ve still got homework to do. I’m running out of time. I can feel it pass me by with a whisper and a soft laugh. I’ve got to make these copies.
Lift the cover, place the paper. Is it lined up correctly? There’s the red arrow, okay it’s fine. Lower the cover, press start.
The hum of the machine takes me by surprise. It’s louder than I expected it to be. It swallows all other sounds and leaves them in the background. The buzz of conversation in the councilors’ office to my left, the giggle of the secretaries, the swish, swish, scuff of carpeted footsteps slide into insignificance. My world narrows to the buzz, buzz, hum, scan, snick, snick, husha, slide, print of the machine in front of me. Its endlessly predictable cycle.
The page is warm when I take it from the scanner. Heated by lights only visible as they shine from the sides of the cover in yet another unsuccessful escape attempt. Never seen plainly, hidden behind the secretive dance of what goes on when the scanner is scanning. But the page comes out warm. Comforting on skin chilled by air-conditioning, violently unnecessary in the middle of February.
Time slows. Compresses to the vibration of the machine under my fingertips, the rhythmic movement of paper in and out of the scanners waiting mouth, the singsong melodies as it does its duty. Making copies. Copies upon copies, day in and day out. Always the same. Never changing in purpose or action. Peaceful in its simplicity. Allowing time to stand still.
I breathe. Surrounded by the hum of the copy machine, and feel the pull of my ribcage stretching. Relaxing. In this moment, breathing is easy, as time spirals and ceases to move. I swear I feel the clock stop. The activity of people around me blurs. Fading together and leaving me alone, inside that mechanized symphony of buzz, buzz, hum, scan, snick, snick, husha, slide, print.
Print.
The air stirred by my hectic passing sends the short pieces of hair around my face to tickle my cheekbones. Getting in my eyes. I can feel it starting. That weight on my skin that sinks my chest in. Wraps my lungs in cotton gauze, itching. Binds the inhalations and exhalations of my hurried breaths as I try to return the oxygen in my bloodstream to a normal level. Gasping. There’s never enough time.
The pulse of my shoes as they beat their rapid rhythm against the tile, asbestos safe behind its repeatedly renewed coat of sealant, sends my heart to dance along in my footsteps. Palpitating against my sternum. I’m almost there. I can see the door waiting for me. Silent in its ever-present opportunity. Giving no hint at my welcome.
The metal handle, cold beneath my hands, swings the door open in smooth acquiescence. I wish everything would go as smoothly.
“Hi, I need to use the copy machine.”
“Why?”
“Um, I need to make copies…”
“Of what?”
“These papers.”
“All of those?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“That many?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are they?”
“Recommendations and stuff…”
“Oh, well. Do you know how to use the machine?”
“Not really, but if you show me I can do the rest.”
“Well, okay.” Her eyes hold distrust like an old friend. Someone she’s grown to depend on. I wonder how many kids lie to her everyday. If I had a nickel… Well you know. I’d be rich as hell.
“Alright, so you put the paper in face down, line it up with the little red arrow. See it? Then press start.”
“What if I need to make more than one copy?”
“Just type in the number before you press start. But afterward, make sure you press the ‘reset’ button so it goes back to ‘one’. Don’t forget.” I imagine her horror at the possibility of the waste of paper from printing an extra copy or two. It might end her world.
Only thirty minutes left. And I’ve still got homework to do. I’m running out of time. I can feel it pass me by with a whisper and a soft laugh. I’ve got to make these copies.
Lift the cover, place the paper. Is it lined up correctly? There’s the red arrow, okay it’s fine. Lower the cover, press start.
The hum of the machine takes me by surprise. It’s louder than I expected it to be. It swallows all other sounds and leaves them in the background. The buzz of conversation in the councilors’ office to my left, the giggle of the secretaries, the swish, swish, scuff of carpeted footsteps slide into insignificance. My world narrows to the buzz, buzz, hum, scan, snick, snick, husha, slide, print of the machine in front of me. Its endlessly predictable cycle.
The page is warm when I take it from the scanner. Heated by lights only visible as they shine from the sides of the cover in yet another unsuccessful escape attempt. Never seen plainly, hidden behind the secretive dance of what goes on when the scanner is scanning. But the page comes out warm. Comforting on skin chilled by air-conditioning, violently unnecessary in the middle of February.
Time slows. Compresses to the vibration of the machine under my fingertips, the rhythmic movement of paper in and out of the scanners waiting mouth, the singsong melodies as it does its duty. Making copies. Copies upon copies, day in and day out. Always the same. Never changing in purpose or action. Peaceful in its simplicity. Allowing time to stand still.
I breathe. Surrounded by the hum of the copy machine, and feel the pull of my ribcage stretching. Relaxing. In this moment, breathing is easy, as time spirals and ceases to move. I swear I feel the clock stop. The activity of people around me blurs. Fading together and leaving me alone, inside that mechanized symphony of buzz, buzz, hum, scan, snick, snick, husha, slide, print.
Print.
Photo
The blue sky ate the dawn and left her weeping.
Clutching at her hair while the breeze blew warm and the grass sighed.
Whispering sorrow.
Clutching at her hair while the breeze blew warm and the grass sighed.
Whispering sorrow.
Photo
The blue sky ate the dawn and left her weeping.
Clutching at her hair while the breeze blew warm and the grass sighed.
Whispering sorrow.
Clutching at her hair while the breeze blew warm and the grass sighed.
Whispering sorrow.
Shifting
I trace my fingers on the windowsill…
picking up dust in patches.
Feeling the clock trickle backwards to the
tick
tick
tock
Of silent heartbeats.
The sunlight sighs onto rough floorboards,
throwing the walls into shadow.
Rolling peaceful, with a tinge of blue.
The bedsprings creak.
Splitting the almost silence with their complaints.
They quiet when sternly reprimanded,
their chattered protests settle softly in the background.
I can feel the air move.
It twitches like a wet dog
and noses your palm.
Slightly damp and soft around the edges.
I don’t come here often…
wandering in occasionally when I’ve no place else to go,
Glancing at the furnishings.
Noting the cobwebs taking shelter in the corners
Spinning sentimental conversations in their restless turning.
There is a waiting here,
A momentary stillness…
When the sun catches up to the moon,
And the *tag*!
“You’re it!”
That sends the stars off…
To hide and be seeked once more.
picking up dust in patches.
Feeling the clock trickle backwards to the
tick
tick
tock
Of silent heartbeats.
The sunlight sighs onto rough floorboards,
throwing the walls into shadow.
Rolling peaceful, with a tinge of blue.
The bedsprings creak.
Splitting the almost silence with their complaints.
They quiet when sternly reprimanded,
their chattered protests settle softly in the background.
I can feel the air move.
It twitches like a wet dog
and noses your palm.
Slightly damp and soft around the edges.
I don’t come here often…
wandering in occasionally when I’ve no place else to go,
Glancing at the furnishings.
Noting the cobwebs taking shelter in the corners
Spinning sentimental conversations in their restless turning.
There is a waiting here,
A momentary stillness…
When the sun catches up to the moon,
And the *tag*!
“You’re it!”
That sends the stars off…
To hide and be seeked once more.
Now Is the Time When I Wish I Were Old Enough to Vote
We waited. There was nothing else to do. We watched the man with the smooth solid voice through the television screen and prayed that America wouldn’t disappoint us any more than it already had. We watched the votes tally and ceased to breathe.
There was a moment, just then, that the past four years flickered across my consciousness. I saw those buildings, our twin symbols, in all their flaming glory. I saw those bodies, in their desperate fall through the sky from 100 stories. Flecks of ash from the bonfire of our confidence. America relearned fear that day. She remembered what it’s like to be terrified and in her mindless panic, the retaliation was harsh. And he spearheaded her vengeance.
Even now we don’t know why he did it. Money, oil, terrorism, revenge, redemption… but he pulled the War card. And we gave him our Kings.
There were so many things to hate about him. His ignorance, his greed, his peculiar manner of offending anyone whom he didn’t agree with, or who didn’t agree with him. I never could pick just one. I had hoped, when he first took his seat in that oval office. I had hoped to be wrong. But my hope died with that declaration of war.
Today… today I had hope again. We watched the numbers climb and it was close. It was so close. But his numbers won. Four more years of not knowing what he would do to us. What new parts of us he would kill. What new hatred he would foster.
I cried for America. Wept for her awkward step backward. But the years would pass. There would be another time for hope.
There was a moment, just then, that the past four years flickered across my consciousness. I saw those buildings, our twin symbols, in all their flaming glory. I saw those bodies, in their desperate fall through the sky from 100 stories. Flecks of ash from the bonfire of our confidence. America relearned fear that day. She remembered what it’s like to be terrified and in her mindless panic, the retaliation was harsh. And he spearheaded her vengeance.
Even now we don’t know why he did it. Money, oil, terrorism, revenge, redemption… but he pulled the War card. And we gave him our Kings.
There were so many things to hate about him. His ignorance, his greed, his peculiar manner of offending anyone whom he didn’t agree with, or who didn’t agree with him. I never could pick just one. I had hoped, when he first took his seat in that oval office. I had hoped to be wrong. But my hope died with that declaration of war.
Today… today I had hope again. We watched the numbers climb and it was close. It was so close. But his numbers won. Four more years of not knowing what he would do to us. What new parts of us he would kill. What new hatred he would foster.
I cried for America. Wept for her awkward step backward. But the years would pass. There would be another time for hope.
Conversations
I like talking to you.
I like talking to you too.
But you’re quiet sometimes.
I know.
It makes the air go still.
Do you think so?
I do.
I see. I never realized. I never knew I had that effect on you.
Well now you do.
I see. That makes things harder.
Do you think so?
I do.
Well perhaps you should have paid more attention then.
Perhaps I should have.
What, no argument?
Not today.
And tomorrow?
I don’t know.
So will we end this here? Will these conversations stall?
Well, I don’t think so.
Don’t you think so?
No, I don’t.
I like talking to you too.
But you’re quiet sometimes.
I know.
It makes the air go still.
Do you think so?
I do.
I see. I never realized. I never knew I had that effect on you.
Well now you do.
I see. That makes things harder.
Do you think so?
I do.
Well perhaps you should have paid more attention then.
Perhaps I should have.
What, no argument?
Not today.
And tomorrow?
I don’t know.
So will we end this here? Will these conversations stall?
Well, I don’t think so.
Don’t you think so?
No, I don’t.
Sempiternal
Sunset flickers with the hazy sheen of sweat,
off fingertips.
Dripping shadows onto twilight soaked skin...
heavy with the murmur of the grass.
Sinking softly between the sighs of condensed air
in peach fuzz splendor,
blood soaked fantasy,
violet daydreams.
Sent spinning off to collide with pinpricked combustion…
In a wash of approaching midnight.
Eyes blazed by twist colored light;
A fury against my eyelids.
Bathed in the glow of fading daylight...
And the flicker of night dark sky.
off fingertips.
Dripping shadows onto twilight soaked skin...
heavy with the murmur of the grass.
Sinking softly between the sighs of condensed air
in peach fuzz splendor,
blood soaked fantasy,
violet daydreams.
Sent spinning off to collide with pinpricked combustion…
In a wash of approaching midnight.
Eyes blazed by twist colored light;
A fury against my eyelids.
Bathed in the glow of fading daylight...
And the flicker of night dark sky.
When You're Seven
I peeked out from underneath my bed covers. I did not want to go out there. My room lay in shadows, murky with unseen nightmares. I pulled the blankets back over my head and burrowed into the warm pocket my body had made while I slept. While I dreamt.
There, much better. No need to go out there. I’m fine right here. Surrounded by the soft comfort of goose down covers and my favorite Beauty and the Beast sheets. I hugged my pillowcase to my chest and shut my eyes. I’m safe here. But the dream was fixed to the insides of my eyelids. It burrowed into my head and got stuck on “play”. I couldn’t stop it. I willed it to end, commanded, pleaded, ordered, begged, cried. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I wanted my mommy.
“Mommy? Mommy??” Nothing. Where was she? Why couldn’t she hear me?
“Mommy!”…………”Mooommmyyy?!” A rustle from her room. I held my breath. She didn’t come. What was she doing? Why wouldn’t she wake? What had happened? Where was my mommy? “I want my mommy…” tears slid down my face. “I just want my mommy!” But she was all the way across the house. Across my room, through the hall. Then the door, the knob was hard to turn. Sometimes I couldn’t get it open by myself. What if I got stuck there. In the hallway. Not able to go forward and too afraid to go back. Would she be mad if I woke her? Would she make me go back to bed? But I didn’t want to go back to bed. I wanted my mommy. I needed my mommy.
I tucked my blanket around my shoulders and slid my toes off the bed. The air was cold and I snatched them back in under the covers in surprise. But I needed to get out of bed. I steeled my self and sneaked my feet to the floor. My heart raced and I waited for the hand that would reach out from under my bed to grab my ankle. Waited for the monster that would jump out and gnash its teeth and claws and gobble me up. The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
My toes touched the floorboards. The room was quiet. No monsters yet. I gathered the blanket close to my body and raced across the room. I stubbed my toe, hard, and cried out. Can’t stop. But it hurts. Can’t stop!
I flew across the hardwood and reached the carpet, nearly tripped headlong into the hallway, didn’t stop to think about the knob, and flung the door open. I didn’t care if I woke her.
“Mommy!”
She shot up. “What is it honey? What’s wrong?”
“I had a bad dream!”
Her shoulders sagged in relief that it wasn’t something more serious. “Come here sweetheart.” She held out her arms to me and I rushed into her. She pulled me underneath the blankets and sat me up by her side. “Tell me about your dream.”
“It was really bad. There were sharks and they were gonna eat me. And you were dead.” I felt the tears start again. My face was hot and wet. My chest hurt when I breathed. My mommy held me and patted my back. Those smooth, soothing circles that people use when others cry. The sobbing slowed.
“Mommy, I hurt my toe.”
“There, there, sweetie. Come here. Let me kiss it. I’ll make it better.”
There, much better. No need to go out there. I’m fine right here. Surrounded by the soft comfort of goose down covers and my favorite Beauty and the Beast sheets. I hugged my pillowcase to my chest and shut my eyes. I’m safe here. But the dream was fixed to the insides of my eyelids. It burrowed into my head and got stuck on “play”. I couldn’t stop it. I willed it to end, commanded, pleaded, ordered, begged, cried. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I wanted my mommy.
“Mommy? Mommy??” Nothing. Where was she? Why couldn’t she hear me?
“Mommy!”…………”Mooommmyyy?!” A rustle from her room. I held my breath. She didn’t come. What was she doing? Why wouldn’t she wake? What had happened? Where was my mommy? “I want my mommy…” tears slid down my face. “I just want my mommy!” But she was all the way across the house. Across my room, through the hall. Then the door, the knob was hard to turn. Sometimes I couldn’t get it open by myself. What if I got stuck there. In the hallway. Not able to go forward and too afraid to go back. Would she be mad if I woke her? Would she make me go back to bed? But I didn’t want to go back to bed. I wanted my mommy. I needed my mommy.
I tucked my blanket around my shoulders and slid my toes off the bed. The air was cold and I snatched them back in under the covers in surprise. But I needed to get out of bed. I steeled my self and sneaked my feet to the floor. My heart raced and I waited for the hand that would reach out from under my bed to grab my ankle. Waited for the monster that would jump out and gnash its teeth and claws and gobble me up. The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
My toes touched the floorboards. The room was quiet. No monsters yet. I gathered the blanket close to my body and raced across the room. I stubbed my toe, hard, and cried out. Can’t stop. But it hurts. Can’t stop!
I flew across the hardwood and reached the carpet, nearly tripped headlong into the hallway, didn’t stop to think about the knob, and flung the door open. I didn’t care if I woke her.
“Mommy!”
She shot up. “What is it honey? What’s wrong?”
“I had a bad dream!”
Her shoulders sagged in relief that it wasn’t something more serious. “Come here sweetheart.” She held out her arms to me and I rushed into her. She pulled me underneath the blankets and sat me up by her side. “Tell me about your dream.”
“It was really bad. There were sharks and they were gonna eat me. And you were dead.” I felt the tears start again. My face was hot and wet. My chest hurt when I breathed. My mommy held me and patted my back. Those smooth, soothing circles that people use when others cry. The sobbing slowed.
“Mommy, I hurt my toe.”
“There, there, sweetie. Come here. Let me kiss it. I’ll make it better.”
Orphan Titles Poem: What I would like to see after turning off the world; a.k.a. The Day I Turned the World Away
I blinked it all away.
Wished it into white space
filled with the fuzzy sounds of water dripping
And the whistle of air through my teeth.
I pressed my hand to the atmosphere
and pulled it through the hole I made in the stars.
Where the world runs dry.
Color shifting past strands of hair
As they twist themselves around my shoulders.
Seeking shelter from the rage of a thousand suns…
A million…
Ablaze in timeless tragedy.
I covered it in emptiness.
In white noise and radio static and that high pitched ringing in my ears.
Hid myself between the folds of particles sifting poignant.
Atomic conversation.
And it embraced me.
Held me sure in the absence of all else but this…
This closeness.
This longing for a white space…
That turns the world away.
~ G. Pollack
Wished it into white space
filled with the fuzzy sounds of water dripping
And the whistle of air through my teeth.
I pressed my hand to the atmosphere
and pulled it through the hole I made in the stars.
Where the world runs dry.
Color shifting past strands of hair
As they twist themselves around my shoulders.
Seeking shelter from the rage of a thousand suns…
A million…
Ablaze in timeless tragedy.
I covered it in emptiness.
In white noise and radio static and that high pitched ringing in my ears.
Hid myself between the folds of particles sifting poignant.
Atomic conversation.
And it embraced me.
Held me sure in the absence of all else but this…
This closeness.
This longing for a white space…
That turns the world away.
~ G. Pollack
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