THE EARTH HELD ITS BREATH
she pulled apart a cotton ball
and draped it in the sky,
called it a cloud.
below, he dug with freckled hands
in elbow-deep puddles of mud
for a secret passage to take him home.
she tucked her knees toward her chest,
buried her ashen face in sap and bark,
and covered herself with crackling leaves.
one bubble,
then two and three,
and four and a hundred and a thousand,
and infinity
traipsed across the watercolor
horizon, the sinking molten sun,
the maroon and violet paintbrush strokes.
somewhere a cat mewled
and a bird wailed.
the earth held its breath.
SCARS
“I said my dress is pretty, Mama.
Don’t you think so?”
she lifted her head,
from between her knees.
a prayer escaped her lips
to a God she didn’t think cared.
“Baby, you look like an angel.
You’ll always be my little bit of sunshine.”
nail scars, little crescent moons
were carved into her palm now.
she couldn’t breathe.
“Can I wear your pearls?
I want to be a grown-up!”
she leaned against the door,
trembling and teeth chattering.
exhaling through her nose,
vowed to change.
the dingy bathroom
absorbed her promise.
“… No, baby.
You can’t grow up too fast.”
unfettered
she opened her eyes slowly,
long feathered eyelashes beating
like hummingbirds. one.
blink. two. blink. three and –
a hand stretched out, grasping
at the ceiling, no… at the dust
that leapt through pale prisms of light.
she turned her head, buried her nose
into the pillow and inhaled musk.
but beyond the glass pane
her companion cooed, then retreated
further into the orange blossoms.
inside, she sniffed and wriggled
then pressed a hand to her moist face.
and closed her eyes.
FROST
tickled
hairs on her arm –
but she waited under
the snowstorm-
heavy sky,
because she believed
every one
of his promises.
EVERY SUMMER
We were rebels,
swinging as
high
as we could in our
fluorescently floral
print dresses while
our mothers sipped
black coffee.
And we giggled and
kicked the tufts of
dandelions and spun
under ribbons of
watercolor sky.
We wished on stars
long before we even knew
their names, and
grasped the night wildly,
watching fireflies
wriggle around in
our palms.
And we pinky-
swore we would
never grow up,
or turn into our mothers,
or worry about the
little things.
Inevitably,
our ring fingers acquired
diamonds, and bassinets
congregated in the corners
of our master suites. So
we broke
our promises,
but never our vows.
And our children
swing now from
white picket
porches into
endless horizons.
she pulled apart a cotton ball
and draped it in the sky,
called it a cloud.
below, he dug with freckled hands
in elbow-deep puddles of mud
for a secret passage to take him home.
she tucked her knees toward her chest,
buried her ashen face in sap and bark,
and covered herself with crackling leaves.
one bubble,
then two and three,
and four and a hundred and a thousand,
and infinity
traipsed across the watercolor
horizon, the sinking molten sun,
the maroon and violet paintbrush strokes.
somewhere a cat mewled
and a bird wailed.
the earth held its breath.
SCARS
“I said my dress is pretty, Mama.
Don’t you think so?”
she lifted her head,
from between her knees.
a prayer escaped her lips
to a God she didn’t think cared.
“Baby, you look like an angel.
You’ll always be my little bit of sunshine.”
nail scars, little crescent moons
were carved into her palm now.
she couldn’t breathe.
“Can I wear your pearls?
I want to be a grown-up!”
she leaned against the door,
trembling and teeth chattering.
exhaling through her nose,
vowed to change.
the dingy bathroom
absorbed her promise.
“… No, baby.
You can’t grow up too fast.”
unfettered
she opened her eyes slowly,
long feathered eyelashes beating
like hummingbirds. one.
blink. two. blink. three and –
a hand stretched out, grasping
at the ceiling, no… at the dust
that leapt through pale prisms of light.
she turned her head, buried her nose
into the pillow and inhaled musk.
but beyond the glass pane
her companion cooed, then retreated
further into the orange blossoms.
inside, she sniffed and wriggled
then pressed a hand to her moist face.
and closed her eyes.
FROST
tickled
hairs on her arm –
but she waited under
the snowstorm-
heavy sky,
because she believed
every one
of his promises.
EVERY SUMMER
We were rebels,
swinging as
high
as we could in our
fluorescently floral
print dresses while
our mothers sipped
black coffee.
And we giggled and
kicked the tufts of
dandelions and spun
under ribbons of
watercolor sky.
We wished on stars
long before we even knew
their names, and
grasped the night wildly,
watching fireflies
wriggle around in
our palms.
And we pinky-
swore we would
never grow up,
or turn into our mothers,
or worry about the
little things.
Inevitably,
our ring fingers acquired
diamonds, and bassinets
congregated in the corners
of our master suites. So
we broke
our promises,
but never our vows.
And our children
swing now from
white picket
porches into
endless horizons.
