Sunday, December 18, 2016

You — 1.48am



It was all I could do —
holding onto your barbed wire fingertips,
your candy cane arms
beguiling yet, humane.
For all the agony that ensued,
it was all I could do
to swallow every burning bite,
force-fed and bloated,
metal crunching — bits and bobs
grinding my pearly whites
till every gate
was golden.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Booking It

She is picking up the tattered paperback book. The spine has a million wrinkles in it, the white jagged unbroken lines strongest at the center. It has been cracked hundreds of times. She understands because this story is a heavy one to carry on anyone’s back. Her fingertips trail tenderly over the cover, the colors now faded. The sky blue has become paler, less vibrant — a couple shades away from being grey. The baby pink has become beige. As she opens it carefully, it makes a protesting creak. Perplexed, she examines the front page again, seeing that it has come right off its spine, only hanging on by the back cover. She traces the exposed spine to feel the remains of glue. It seems as though it will not be righted despite how many times it has been fixed down.

Despite the newer copies staring out from the glass cages, despite how destroyed this one is, it always seems to receive the most care.

Letter From an Old Poet

 I Day two thousand  one hundred and ninety-one. Our little blue marble has made one modest revolution  around our honey-sweet sun  si...