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Literature Text
you can't cure sorrow. The rain
on the windshield is painted
on the windshield is painted
by this traffic's color and you
are just the driver.
Other people pass
with faces blearing,
Other people pass
with faces blearing,
though I do wish
you could see highway
swallowed by a wash
of lightning,
you could see highway
swallowed by a wash
of lightning,
questions spark in halos
of low street lamps as you veer
toward the center,
her laugh is absent,
ceaseless.
Blink your eyes.
ceaseless.
Blink your eyes.
She will be at your left and the gust
through the tinted window
will be humid,
you could taste her last spirit
in the smoke and
saliva and
water.
you could taste her last spirit
in the smoke and
saliva and
water.
Literature
Visitor
There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
wrist-deep in fresh soil. Her hands are birds
in flight.
It's late, but no one comes to take her home.
The pale moon offers a silver smile -
the clouds disapprove.
Too tired to dream, she buries her legs in sky.
Tonight she is invincible, untouchable,
this frail girl beneath the stars
this death in light.
-
There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
falling to her white knees. Her stare is a pane
of glass.
The eyes of the living are often murky but
the eyes of the gone
are windows.
Literature
daughters
my 5 year old daughter only wants to run
through the park, loping beside our wolf-puppy,
both lean & fierce, joyful
as she tosses her hair back
& suddenly I see my body
in hers, tireless & certain,
despite my pounding heart
& damaged limbs, I run&run&
then she gives for a moment,
tumbled full-length in the grass,
feeding the puppy from her cupped hands,
& demanding, scratch my back too!
then down her sides & over the ripples
of her ribcage, her leaping heart
& tummy, still baby-soft,
until the shadows reach us & I
must give her back, inch by inch,
a long, twirling hug
my mother will echo with sad arms,
murmuring, you look really good,
Literature
Big Sister
I am not my sister's keeper.
she is a lock-pick, a file system
of assorted secrets
spilled across the couch like a
a jar of sequins and buttons
I am not my sister's keeper.
But I hold her hair back while she pukes,
and break the news to her evenly
waiting for the decline of her wailing
like the tumbling of retreating curls on
ocean docks.
She swings her feet off the edge,
I build her wings.
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Comments11
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This is incredible and beautiful.