Category: 12th

On pillows I lay,
Listening to the bouncing drops of rain,
The music governing my day.
I’m trapped
And forced to listen to the busy, rapid voice.
It bellows and directs and it haphazard in its soldierly intonation

Its contents give no inspiration.
This pillows, the feathered thoughts and ideas squashed.
If only I could lift and let them raise into flight,
If only I could lift the blanket that weighs tons,
If only I could climb the mountainous folds of my bed,

Occasionally, I open one of my eyes,
Uneager to look at the clock,
I listen for steps and I know
That there isn’t anybody in the house
Or that there hasn’t been

At first it was as though I had stumbled upon
The life breathing the origins of my own
Atop a splintered fence
Blazing
Eyes of a godly thing

Taking flight as I thought it—
You are my saving grace
Ancestral spirit like paper skin
Fading
Window gaze, my pensive
Death upon the precipice
Now peer all the same

On the third day, forgotten
Nesting away
In the chasm of another
Missed for the embrace
My longing contained
By glass walls, steaming
Suffocation—yet

Come morning, I prayed
And you eluded me again.

I found that with the mention of the heater
Or my tongue, limp against the roof of my mouth
I could not avoid the petty sensations
To sweat profusely
And with a panicked swallow
Choke

By a passing suggestion, I am engulfed
Upon encountering the sea-bridge
Where crystal waves entice
Like dampened clay, my contortion

Then I thought myself to be
Malleable—slipping
Between your fingers like sludge
Bound for the drain, dark places
claustrophobic

My condition is demanded
In recognition of setting and speech
I entered a room of seated figures
And in a bewildered haste
Joined them

Where are you leading me, barren land?
The winter came and froze your thoughtful face.
How many steps made their imprint
on your nose and cheeks?
Do you see the sky with your eyes,
the pools left by the drizzle?
Are you blind during droughts
When the liquid of your irises sinks deep
into your heart with memories…
of the clouds and their resemblance?

Did you see your face in the clouds?
I saw mine.
Did you see it dissolve as the droplets fell?
I saw mine.
Did you see it in the surface of the fresh puddle?
I never saw mine.
I was disappearing in the wilderness
of the neighborhood’s park,
As if the wind could blow me away.

Perhaps I was a mirage.
I had no mirror to check.
How could I be when there was nobody to see

but you?

Why are you scared, child?
Is it the roar of inhalation?
The endless consumption?
The little turning, creaking wheels?
The gray tail that curls and twitches?

You used to be so rough
with unyielding shouts
to thwart the noise and keep the wheels at bay.

Did you shrink while your body has grown?
Didn’t your teeth and fingernails sharpen?

The machine has entered the living room
yet you cower.
I will lead you if you need help.
I’ll scream, so you’ll regain your voice.
I’ll bite the white plastic surface.
I’ll tear it with my claws.
And the machine will crouch, fearful in the corner.
And the glue will give out.

Its pieces will hit the ground
and lay apart
while we sit on the carpet before the couch
in the falling dust of our triumph.

Your eyes glowed bright on the stage
Softly smiling, you sang among the shining
dancing lights.
Your lilting voice, rhythmic and carefree
reached out to me,
bled the words whispered to me
as I peered from behind the finely spun cocoon
of wool.

Driving home,
the lights along the street wobbled
as I slipped and bounced in the car seat,
each groove and divot pulsating through me.
The shadowed sky was bruised and
the streets were quiet—slick with rain—muted,
illuminated only by the streams of faded yellow light
winding across the sunken grass blades, which trembled under each droplet swallowed.
A small river had collected along the side of the road
where a billboard, exhausted from the dry sun and whipping rain,
advertised a zebra losing its famous black stripes.

My eyes soon fell closed
To the tune of the car humming
And was awakened only to the doors opening softly
And shutting shyly.
I could hear Orion now,
For whom I’d searched for, carefully folded, then pocketed away
For future use after being found hidden behind the back-yard gate.

It was time to walk,
And careful to step around the snails
leaving their slick trails in the darkness,
I shuffled drowsily to the door.

I felt you trembling in my hand,
carefully and fearfully watching it grow
smaller behind us,
until the daunting castle of steel became
nothing more than a mirage: a delicate
construction of steel and glass studded with
miniature relics…

Your tentative eyes had peeked over at me,
worried of harsh critique.
I was bemused of you, the photo’s subject:
a weary face framed in gray,
lines carved from trampled years long gone,
whose pensive thoughts whirled away,
released as the flash of the camera left the face
exposed in harsh artificial light.

I reached out, transfixed by your
weathered, rough cheeks,
but was alarmed at the smoothness of the
photograph that met my fingertips.

In your eyes I could see the fear,
fear of being
swallowed
by the echoing obsoleteness of
the museum.

How could I let you go?

I ran.

I felt you trembling in my hand
carefully and fearfully watching it grow
smaller behind us,
until the daunting castle of steel became
nothing more than light reflecting off a box
of miniature treasures…

Today, the photograph is softly withered from
being folded
Tucked into a pocket
Unfolded
Looked at
Folded again and tucked away

But I still touch the photo lightly, attempting
not to grasp you too tightly,
for fear of crushing the sweet musings of
years caught within the lines of your face.

four incandescent bulbs
strung from the tree canopy
provided the only light needed
to see our bubble bordered by a fence:
too high to look over
but not high enough to block the sounds.
time spent watching the bulbs
sway in the wind
shiver in the snow
sing in the rain
passed…

four became three as one filament,
a delicate filament strung perfectly
and wound carefully,
burst into sparks
with one brittle touch
as one does in these times

I wish to recognize a world
Of three generations prior
Behold willed ignorance
prefacing
the beginning of the end

And what defines a generation?
Tragedy—around which we organize
Well, cheers to progress!
Emerging problems and modern answers
Cycles of collateral damage
We’re dying to overcome

Because when the smog clears
I am a great grandmother
Glimpsing the Tatra peaks from Krakow
And swans parading Italian canals
Intoxicated by a fickle hope

That momentary reprieve
As we advance our chaos
Sheltered away—always drifting
Further, then hurtling
Fateful comet or
Weapon of mass destruction we are
Killing ourselves with knowledge
Flinging solutions and
Waiting

Disappearing into thin air
Perhaps I should
Because I became a ghost

People walking through me dressed in coats of fur,
I can barely feel
The warmth.

In the cool night,
I wonder through the paved streets
With no goal
To occupy my empty mind.

I’m withering away.
The wind blows, dissipating my shape.

And yet
I still see
I still hear
I still smell
I’m still here.

And never will I want to leave
Thoughts are flying through my head
I need to return.
My shoes need to finally touch the cobblestone of the pavement

And with this will all changed
There would not be an epitaph,

For I had spoken with the homeless man on the beach,
For I had fed the larks pieces of bread,
For I had managed to talk to one of my forgotten friends.

I’ve been brought back into the world,
And it drives through me
All the experiences flood my mind

Singing songs,
Forest walks,
Conversations long,
Perusing streets,
Eating treats,
Greeting friends,
Swimming deep,
Feeling breeze,
Hearing birds,
Holding hands.