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Literature Text
When I was little, my aunt dreamed of daughters.
On the weekends, she would take me,
my dimples and my temper, show me flowers
blooming in her garden: the ground moist,
yellow pansies and sweet peas taller
than my four feet.
I collected garden toads, plucked one from the soil
then another, and she let me place them
in the old tub downstairs, its white walls inescapable.
I laid there quietly,
their little legs finning the water,
the press of ripples pruning my skin.
I was an empress in new clothes. All my subjects
loved me.
On the weekends, she would take me,
my dimples and my temper, show me flowers
blooming in her garden: the ground moist,
yellow pansies and sweet peas taller
than my four feet.
I collected garden toads, plucked one from the soil
then another, and she let me place them
in the old tub downstairs, its white walls inescapable.
I laid there quietly,
their little legs finning the water,
the press of ripples pruning my skin.
I was an empress in new clothes. All my subjects
loved me.
Literature
truth in the lens
Your 35mm camera
is like a kid’s scrawl on a cement wall: we were here.
Passion unabridged,
documentation for the sake of documentation
as we lose track of what we were supposed to be doing
and just exist.
You’re as raw as a light scratch at three in the morning,
as lost as a Polaroid in that pocket in your suitcase
that you always forget is there.
(You’re not really lost at all.)
Literature
Lessons
In forty-seven minutes I will be twenty-one years old and my throat is tight with this notion
that every passing moment is a boat taking me further from the boy on the side of the road.
I am terrified of the swelling tide of time, the ripples I will create,
the creases that will be etched into my face
without the laughter lines I know he would have left and
one day someone will ask me how many siblings I have and I will hesitate
because he will be so distant and I can feel it coming.
I never intended to swim without him, but
I am drowning under the weight of pocket-stone-people,
the ones I love who he has never met and won't ever meet
and it
Literature
This is Irony
I count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,
and stillness in the words of dead poets.
We write our secrets on the inside of our lungs
and hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,
because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,
but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.
I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,
to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.
A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivion
we press back, back
because death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,
and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
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Published at The Manchester Review: www.themanchesterreview.co.uk/…
© 2016 - 2024 vespera
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