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Literature Text
For the first time his hands
are wider than my hands.
The pads of his fingers tell stories across my wrists,
deeper lines than I've ever seen trap glittering minerals.
And despite his outward roughness,
he is softer still than the bunched fists that held me fast,
kept me for years in a harder bed than his.
He tends a wider history,
kneels among the rows and breathes life into the tired soil.
In the absence of rain, he draws from a deeper narrative:
I borrow the ladle and drink.
If I could, I'd bring him the world while he sleeps,
the fondest victim of his midnight whisper --
dreams we know,
years spent harvesting the fruit of the seed we sowed
when I was a child, when he was just a boy...
I wend myself around the stock and wait to put down roots.
We will grow beneath the same sun.
The garden gate is shut.
are wider than my hands.
The pads of his fingers tell stories across my wrists,
deeper lines than I've ever seen trap glittering minerals.
And despite his outward roughness,
he is softer still than the bunched fists that held me fast,
kept me for years in a harder bed than his.
He tends a wider history,
kneels among the rows and breathes life into the tired soil.
In the absence of rain, he draws from a deeper narrative:
I borrow the ladle and drink.
If I could, I'd bring him the world while he sleeps,
the fondest victim of his midnight whisper --
dreams we know,
years spent harvesting the fruit of the seed we sowed
when I was a child, when he was just a boy...
I wend myself around the stock and wait to put down roots.
We will grow beneath the same sun.
The garden gate is shut.
Literature
Lullaby
"I've been waiting my entire life to tell you that I'm dying and I figured I'd finally get it over with.
So here I am, carving forgive me
into my teeth, so every time that I speak
I can still say that I'm sorry.
More years have passed in the last than I care to remember
but I could never forget:
In eighth grade my chorus teacher always told me,
'Michael, you'll never be good enough.'
and it always excited me. It reminded me of my mother.
On the last day of school she smiled,
her teeth jagged like a train wreck,
she didn't say a word,
but I knew exactly what she meant.
In high school I fell in love with a roadside bomb waiting to be deton
Literature
kissing a ghost
bend.
once upon a
time, i
inhaled a shooting
star -
silver trail
it was a falling
star (in
ha[i]led)
like kissing a ghost
in the parking
lot in the
stairs hollow
lips pressed
against mine
you said darling i
won't be here
forever;
just long enough
to make you love
me,
sunrise dim on
the horizon, blur
ring the li(n)es -
there is the present
and there is the
future but the
past is merely
memories
/fingerprints
enclosed in
stories between
the pages
and the sun
it is strong it
is bright it is
scorching my moon-
possessed
flesh charring
my lungs burning
my heart
like kissing a ghost
blazing fire blazi
Literature
for unseeing eyes
laden with sky
we stumbled
and painted mockingbirds
on loveless branches
folding in our slender limbs
and ducking under our own
voices, fidgety and frail
against the wall of night.
between the dipping blades
and drawn shoulders
we learned to craft our words
steady-soft,
a drumming rain
that carved canyons
in open hearts and
drew the sunshine to
our supping lips.
keen-eyed, we watched
remembering the weight
of unseeing eyes
and scalding remarks
and we learned to slip
the noose-knots and slide
through the soul-cracks
and somehow
build kingdoms under
upturned noses.
with lyrical uncertainty
and tender determinat
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Happy poetry doesn't usually happen...but this did. <3
© 2013 - 2024 xxDearOblivionxx
Comments2
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Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactWhat is really striking about this piece is that with its level of specificity you can still take it in different direction. It could be about a woman with a much younger lover, or (because there is no overt sexual element here) it could be about a mother and son.
I'm gonna take the latter, because it is a little harder to prove, but certainly the first lines indicate a passage of time that favor it. Them holding each other could be reference to when he was much younger, scared of something or perhaps in a desperate situation where all they had was each other. He is know grown (possibly a farmer?), when she refers to herself as a child and him a boy, it may infer a teenage pregnancy. She finds the two of them growing together on a farm, out of those bad times when they were just so close.
It seems like in this work it paints this view of maternal love, that in a way can make it more desirable than romantic love. While the narrator never explicitly discusses it, it seems like after her teenage pregnancy she's taken this sorta love over the romantic type. It is a safer choice, a child is dependent for most of its life so is she is free to love as much as she wants. She was probably a single mom and with that developed a hesitancy towards romance, where love can be inequitable and people can walk away. However the work maintains a happy tone overall just focusing on the fact that they've made it, not the sacrifices they made to make it.
Great stuff. I'm not a fan of substituting romantic love with paternal, but this certainly shows the comfort that one may find in such a substitution.