Death Poems
So I'm in a poetry class and each week we have to turn in a poem to workshop with our groups. A couple weeks in, my group noticed that all I write are poems about death. Oopsie.
I'm not sure if this means I am horribly morbid or if it's just been on my mind or if it's all just a coincidence. Whatever it says about my personality, I'm posting one of the poems here:
What She Saw
Inspired by Jason Olsen and Anita Desai's Clear Light of Day
It's not you,
he said,
cradling her chin
in his hand,
It's just that
I hate your mother.
The word hate
always brought
to her mind
the image of a dead dog,
bleeding.
It's what she saw
when she saw her mom
that day, trembling
face against
their flowered quilt,
her tears stitching
across it.
It's what she saw
in the bathroom,
sprawled across damp tile,
naked but for
tiny blue pills, scattered across
her seething body. It's what
she saw in her
foster mother's steely eyes.
But she didn't
see him again.
She only
cradled the dog
and stopped looking.
I'm not sure if this means I am horribly morbid or if it's just been on my mind or if it's all just a coincidence. Whatever it says about my personality, I'm posting one of the poems here:
What She Saw
Inspired by Jason Olsen and Anita Desai's Clear Light of Day
It's not you,
he said,
cradling her chin
in his hand,
It's just that
I hate your mother.
The word hate
always brought
to her mind
the image of a dead dog,
bleeding.
It's what she saw
when she saw her mom
that day, trembling
face against
their flowered quilt,
her tears stitching
across it.
It's what she saw
in the bathroom,
sprawled across damp tile,
naked but for
tiny blue pills, scattered across
her seething body. It's what
she saw in her
foster mother's steely eyes.
But she didn't
see him again.
She only
cradled the dog
and stopped looking.