top of page
perspectives
scents, feelings and summer memories take a different point of view
faces
Downcast face,
paper mâché smile,
apple slice eyes
holding back tears.
Creases on their faces mark
faux emotions,
the eyeliner smudged
over rosy cheeks and outstretched fingers,
like marionette dolls.
paper mâché smile,
apple slice eyes
holding back tears.
Creases on their faces mark
faux emotions,
the eyeliner smudged
over rosy cheeks and outstretched fingers,
like marionette dolls.
answer
In my right hand
I clutch the phone,
my eyes squint at the font,
at my words;
The words that tumble,
rise, crest, fall
from my ample fingertips.
They cloud the screen
like a storm.
Perhaps I wrote too much.
Maybe I'm being silly.
I think our relationship
is ending.
I think you don't love me.
I think I'm being needy.
I think, I think, I think…
Tonight,
as I lay on that hard bed
in my semi- lit room,
it is the weight that roots
into the tightly knit crevices
of the knot in my throat
that makes my chest ache,
and it is the blistering fire
that spreads through my heart
with shaking wings,
making me wait for you to speak,
that makes my eyes stay open.
But when I stare at my
"I love you"
and your automated answer:
"Read 12:32",
I close my eyes
in silent defeat.
I clutch the phone,
my eyes squint at the font,
at my words;
The words that tumble,
rise, crest, fall
from my ample fingertips.
They cloud the screen
like a storm.
Perhaps I wrote too much.
Maybe I'm being silly.
I think our relationship
is ending.
I think you don't love me.
I think I'm being needy.
I think, I think, I think…
Tonight,
as I lay on that hard bed
in my semi- lit room,
it is the weight that roots
into the tightly knit crevices
of the knot in my throat
that makes my chest ache,
and it is the blistering fire
that spreads through my heart
with shaking wings,
making me wait for you to speak,
that makes my eyes stay open.
But when I stare at my
"I love you"
and your automated answer:
"Read 12:32",
I close my eyes
in silent defeat.
sing
I can hear the crescendoing passion
that rises from my chest
like an unquenchable fire
settling slowly to the beat of the drum,
searing the inside of the white church,
leaving it charred and smoky and warm,
blackened with the words of permanence.
Skirts woven of licorice layers,
topped with a cherry made of cinnamon,
our bodies dance to the pine-sap glow
of the room mottled with shining faces
everyone together for the Christmas spirit.
Always the piano changes,
and like dark incense,
our words float into an air
that tastes like darkness.
The tears that I shed
when I hear one last Laudate Pueri
will never stop carving salty crevices
into my cheeks
and my hands will never stop dancing
under the paper starch drenched in black ink
and the leather of my binder,
cold and smooth against my skin,
reminding me to sing.
that rises from my chest
like an unquenchable fire
settling slowly to the beat of the drum,
searing the inside of the white church,
leaving it charred and smoky and warm,
blackened with the words of permanence.
Skirts woven of licorice layers,
topped with a cherry made of cinnamon,
our bodies dance to the pine-sap glow
of the room mottled with shining faces
everyone together for the Christmas spirit.
Always the piano changes,
and like dark incense,
our words float into an air
that tastes like darkness.
The tears that I shed
when I hear one last Laudate Pueri
will never stop carving salty crevices
into my cheeks
and my hands will never stop dancing
under the paper starch drenched in black ink
and the leather of my binder,
cold and smooth against my skin,
reminding me to sing.
summer memories: 3
bottom of page