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Literature Text
Mother used to tell me
that the spirits air their grievances
when September nights reach
their coolest.
"When, then," I'd mumble,
"might I air mine?"
"Somewhere between the cusp of
October and the last leaf's pass
into senility."
And I'd stare into yellow-flaked evenings
until I, too, lost myself.
that the spirits air their grievances
when September nights reach
their coolest.
"When, then," I'd mumble,
"might I air mine?"
"Somewhere between the cusp of
October and the last leaf's pass
into senility."
And I'd stare into yellow-flaked evenings
until I, too, lost myself.
Literature
wednesday's child
it is the third of october
and i am building a castle for us
out of feathers, bird bones,
ocean waves and library book pages.
anything to keep our feet from
touching the ground.
you are sin, he whispers
and his fingers trail cold fire
down my side, scorching flesh
and freezing bone;
brittle pieces of me shatter
as they hit the stained linoleum floor.
don't wake me from this nightmare.
i whisper a nursery rhyme
as i walk down our
autumn path.
kamikaze leaves fall, trailing
fire as they throw themselves from
the branches, down, down,
to cold pavement below.
your words echo in my mind
a constant reminder
that i am sin
but you,
you were
ne
Literature
poet, breathe now.
you
are
the
rain
fall
i anticipate to moisten my
arid arroyo. you re fresh me and i
confess oh, ho
Literature
You Were Not An Aquarium Boy
Sea-glass became your bones,
brine your blood, and seashells
melded into your skin.
You were not quite an ocean
when you said "This is your sign to love me."
My body was like a building;
tall, cold, almost unbreakable.
I was metallic and sharp,
towering over your waters.
I remember taking your hand in mine,
conch and coral shells scrubbing
my skyscraper wrists, and laughing
about how one day you would
submerge every last bit of me.
Your lips, riddled with argonauts,
found my cheek and I cringed
at the coarseness.
You asked if they bothered me
and I finally told you "I
think I love you."
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Comments5
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This is nice. I really like the personal, but detached tone. It reminds me of Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays."