Poetry Sunday
It's not much, but these poems/short stories will have to do until I have time to write a real blog post. (You know, when I finish up with the research papers and scripts and literary analysis essays that are ALL DUE WITHIN TWO WEEKS OF EACH OTHER.)
*
Four in the Morning
It’s four in the morning, and we’re only awake ‘cause we’re buzzed on the burning potential of summer and maybe just a few too many beers. I swear he’s not sober enough to drive home, and he garbles an agreement, and so we’re just lying on the bed, bodies parallel, breathing in the breath that hangs between our two sets of lips.
And then in the darkness I hear him speak, and somehow the words come out smooth and un-slurred just like this:
Promise me, he says.
Promise me we’ll die like heroes, travelling the globe, hunting for treasure, fighting fierce pirates on the high seas.
Promise me our last breaths will hold words of honor and truth, that we’ll spit in death’s face and leave this life with a sense of dignity.
Promise me we’ll fight apathy with every bit of strength in our bodies; and then - when they put our flesh in the earth - then maybe the angels will welcome us home like warriors.
Who knows where the words come from, but seconds after his speech he’s asleep beside me with a smile on his face, just like a child. And while I listen to the silence, I wonder why speeches like this choose to manifest at night, when everyone’s sleepy and no one’s sober. I wonder what it is about four-in-the-morning that makes our deepest dreams come out of hiding.
I don’t know. I don’t know. But I think that one whispered wish is more intoxicating than a whole six-pack of warm sour beer.
And so I lean over and press my mouth to his temple and whisper,
…I promise.
Purity
The two women watch at the edge of the stream: the brighty-eyed girl with the flushed face; and the grandmother, frail and quaking in a cool breeze that flows from the hill country. Antonyms, these two, juxtaposed by age and old sorrows and shivering new wonders; but together they wait and watch just the same.
A sunspot flits between the trees, a flash of molten silver wreathed in feathery cirrus. Together, the two women catch their breaths.
A creature of myth and moonlight and dream emerges from the forest. She arcs her body across the slim slice of river, and her hooves strike the rocky bank with the sound of bells. A slender spear of pearl burns between violet eyes that watch the two women at the edge of the stream.
Gently, gently, she glides over the ground, each step a sigh, a whisper, a song. Together, the two women tremble.
Gently, so gently, she stretches her silver neck toward the rosy-cheeked child, with a gaze both careful and curious. The girl reaches out a quivering hand, fingers that ache to feel the spider-silk flank -
But the creature shies, whips her head back, bares her teeth in a harsh feral grin. The girl cowers before lightning hooves that strike at the sky in furious denial. She sobs, hiding her face from purity.
When the creature is calm once again, she stretches her neck toward the withered crone. The woman’s hand is wrinkled, blue-webbed with broken veins, but she reaches boldly for the shuddering white hide.
The grandmother’s fingers pause for a moment before her palm flattens against warm flesh, and a sigh echoes through the wood - a sigh like the sound of a thousand hungry wishes coming true all at once.
It is only a moment, a freckle on the face of time, and then the creature flashes back to its own fairytale.
From my hidden perch on the pine branch, I watch this story unfold (for a bird is often privy to the secrets of a private wood), and I wonder: which is the sharper sadness? The grief of the girl who cannot touch a unicorn - or the old woman who can?
*
Four in the Morning
It’s four in the morning, and we’re only awake ‘cause we’re buzzed on the burning potential of summer and maybe just a few too many beers. I swear he’s not sober enough to drive home, and he garbles an agreement, and so we’re just lying on the bed, bodies parallel, breathing in the breath that hangs between our two sets of lips.
And then in the darkness I hear him speak, and somehow the words come out smooth and un-slurred just like this:
Promise me, he says.
Promise me we’ll die like heroes, travelling the globe, hunting for treasure, fighting fierce pirates on the high seas.
Promise me our last breaths will hold words of honor and truth, that we’ll spit in death’s face and leave this life with a sense of dignity.
Promise me we’ll fight apathy with every bit of strength in our bodies; and then - when they put our flesh in the earth - then maybe the angels will welcome us home like warriors.
Who knows where the words come from, but seconds after his speech he’s asleep beside me with a smile on his face, just like a child. And while I listen to the silence, I wonder why speeches like this choose to manifest at night, when everyone’s sleepy and no one’s sober. I wonder what it is about four-in-the-morning that makes our deepest dreams come out of hiding.
I don’t know. I don’t know. But I think that one whispered wish is more intoxicating than a whole six-pack of warm sour beer.
And so I lean over and press my mouth to his temple and whisper,
…I promise.
Purity
The two women watch at the edge of the stream: the brighty-eyed girl with the flushed face; and the grandmother, frail and quaking in a cool breeze that flows from the hill country. Antonyms, these two, juxtaposed by age and old sorrows and shivering new wonders; but together they wait and watch just the same.
A sunspot flits between the trees, a flash of molten silver wreathed in feathery cirrus. Together, the two women catch their breaths.
A creature of myth and moonlight and dream emerges from the forest. She arcs her body across the slim slice of river, and her hooves strike the rocky bank with the sound of bells. A slender spear of pearl burns between violet eyes that watch the two women at the edge of the stream.
Gently, gently, she glides over the ground, each step a sigh, a whisper, a song. Together, the two women tremble.
Gently, so gently, she stretches her silver neck toward the rosy-cheeked child, with a gaze both careful and curious. The girl reaches out a quivering hand, fingers that ache to feel the spider-silk flank -
But the creature shies, whips her head back, bares her teeth in a harsh feral grin. The girl cowers before lightning hooves that strike at the sky in furious denial. She sobs, hiding her face from purity.
When the creature is calm once again, she stretches her neck toward the withered crone. The woman’s hand is wrinkled, blue-webbed with broken veins, but she reaches boldly for the shuddering white hide.
The grandmother’s fingers pause for a moment before her palm flattens against warm flesh, and a sigh echoes through the wood - a sigh like the sound of a thousand hungry wishes coming true all at once.
It is only a moment, a freckle on the face of time, and then the creature flashes back to its own fairytale.
From my hidden perch on the pine branch, I watch this story unfold (for a bird is often privy to the secrets of a private wood), and I wonder: which is the sharper sadness? The grief of the girl who cannot touch a unicorn - or the old woman who can?