Frosted night bus shelter
When I was 10 years younger
(Or more).
You were in your layers:
Band shirt flannel corduroy
(As always)
And you rubbed me warm
Through the hole in my jeans
While we considered what more our markers could say across the small turf of our wind-block.
All of this was romance then;
Long before dramatic teen-aged heartbreak,
Years before the real world settled upon us and into our pores
Like a fine weighty dust.
After the bus pulled away with you I
Lit my cigarette in the safety of the shelter
Popped my collar and stepped into the cold.
Around the corner
Snow under foot and hormones cluttering my inner narrative
I rubbed cinnamon gum on my fingers
To hide the smell of tobacco.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Practice
As of yet
None of my poems
Have been a true or adequate tribute to spirit;
Though union is continually achieved
Through the sticky act of my creation.
None of my poems
Have been a true or adequate tribute to spirit;
Though union is continually achieved
Through the sticky act of my creation.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Small Thanks
Thank you for the air
That rushed in through my bus seat window today;
The air that was briefly without car exhaust and construction dust
And was in fact like fresh cold water on my dirty face.
That rushed in through my bus seat window today;
The air that was briefly without car exhaust and construction dust
And was in fact like fresh cold water on my dirty face.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Query
She stopped --
Eyes hard,
Lips down-turned --
And asked
"Why must you walk through the grass when there is a designated path?"
Which there was, and on which she stood.
It meandered through the greenery with intentional curves
Meant to insinuate an organic nature.
I grinned;
My feet firmly planted, and my toes touching life
And asked in reply
"When did walking on concrete ever make someone smile?"
Eyes hard,
Lips down-turned --
And asked
"Why must you walk through the grass when there is a designated path?"
Which there was, and on which she stood.
It meandered through the greenery with intentional curves
Meant to insinuate an organic nature.
I grinned;
My feet firmly planted, and my toes touching life
And asked in reply
"When did walking on concrete ever make someone smile?"
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
My Nature
Growing up
The field across the street from my home
(Sturdy squat apartment building
Proud of its small mark on the skyline)
Smelled of chamomile through the summer
But I didn’t know what chamomile was
And only knew that it smelled like field.
The tiny cluster of trees in that field
Huddled together against the encroaching city
Sheltered bears and rivers and snakes
In my youth
Despite being across the boulevard from a mall.
And while it would be nearly a decade before I saw a bigger forest
I have yet to sleep under the stars.
The field across the street from my home
(Sturdy squat apartment building
Proud of its small mark on the skyline)
Smelled of chamomile through the summer
But I didn’t know what chamomile was
And only knew that it smelled like field.
The tiny cluster of trees in that field
Huddled together against the encroaching city
Sheltered bears and rivers and snakes
In my youth
Despite being across the boulevard from a mall.
And while it would be nearly a decade before I saw a bigger forest
I have yet to sleep under the stars.
Monday, June 25, 2007
In Memory
My Bubby passed last Tuesday. Anyone who knows me or is a regular reader here, knows the depth of this personal tragedy.
In addition to being an all encompassing grandmother who could transform a can of Campbell’s chicken soup into an event, or keep me enthralled with a sink full of water, a few kitchen items and her uncanny knack for improvisation, as I grew I saw her as the whole and wondrous woman she truly was. A woman whose face lit up when she recounted the dinners and dances of her youth, someone who would smile at your naiveté, let you choose your own course, and be there with open arms when you fell, offering love, hope, and a small sermon on the subject that left you wiser. She had a strength and fire that propelled her gracefully through her 95th year. She was God loving, not fearing, though she believed in universal balance and counted on it often. A skilled storyteller, she jumpstarted my imagination, and in the decades since she has provided me with vital recharges as needed.
She wanted to be a Rabbi before a woman could be, and though people laughed at her, she didn’t stop telling people her dream. She grew into my own spiritual leader, and the spirit she introduced me to is pure, and transcends religion. She taught me that prayers, spells and rituals are all equal, the magick is the intention behind them.
She was the matriarch of my heart, and charged me with the task of continuing to tell my own stories despite my periodic disappointment. She planted the seeds and tended to a part of me that no one else has ever touched, and now in her absence, I must flourish in her honour.
When we buried her on Thursday, the first day of summer, under perfect skies, across the street from strawberry fields, I marvelled at how right it all was; such an appropriate final chapter for a wise pagan and proud Jew. We had said our good byes many times (just in case), and when she went, it was with a smile. No one can ask for more.
In addition to being an all encompassing grandmother who could transform a can of Campbell’s chicken soup into an event, or keep me enthralled with a sink full of water, a few kitchen items and her uncanny knack for improvisation, as I grew I saw her as the whole and wondrous woman she truly was. A woman whose face lit up when she recounted the dinners and dances of her youth, someone who would smile at your naiveté, let you choose your own course, and be there with open arms when you fell, offering love, hope, and a small sermon on the subject that left you wiser. She had a strength and fire that propelled her gracefully through her 95th year. She was God loving, not fearing, though she believed in universal balance and counted on it often. A skilled storyteller, she jumpstarted my imagination, and in the decades since she has provided me with vital recharges as needed.
She wanted to be a Rabbi before a woman could be, and though people laughed at her, she didn’t stop telling people her dream. She grew into my own spiritual leader, and the spirit she introduced me to is pure, and transcends religion. She taught me that prayers, spells and rituals are all equal, the magick is the intention behind them.
She was the matriarch of my heart, and charged me with the task of continuing to tell my own stories despite my periodic disappointment. She planted the seeds and tended to a part of me that no one else has ever touched, and now in her absence, I must flourish in her honour.
When we buried her on Thursday, the first day of summer, under perfect skies, across the street from strawberry fields, I marvelled at how right it all was; such an appropriate final chapter for a wise pagan and proud Jew. We had said our good byes many times (just in case), and when she went, it was with a smile. No one can ask for more.
I am rerunning the pieces I have written about her, including one that was never posted. I expect that she will continue to inspire and affect my life from her place in the wind. While I will miss my Bubby, I know she will make a wonderful angel, and I can sleep soundly knowing that now, she can dance again.
God’s Light
God’s Light
I sat with the oracle
One Sunday
As she ate sparkly pink marshmallow hearts
That are not good for her diabetes
Which is of no concern to either of us
And I asked
If there was enough light
Because I wanted her to see
How my daughter has grown
And she smiled
And said that
Only God has lights
Bright enough
For her eyes
But that my daughter is gorgeous
A real shaina maidelach
And I promised that for Easter
I would come back
With marshmallow chicks
And brighter sunshine
One Sunday
As she ate sparkly pink marshmallow hearts
That are not good for her diabetes
Which is of no concern to either of us
And I asked
If there was enough light
Because I wanted her to see
How my daughter has grown
And she smiled
And said that
Only God has lights
Bright enough
For her eyes
But that my daughter is gorgeous
A real shaina maidelach
And I promised that for Easter
I would come back
With marshmallow chicks
And brighter sunshine
Smile =)
She taught me the power of crystal
Then showed me that power in everything
She taught me to see in tea leaves, cards, and palms
And then taught me how to read people
She told me to stay close to God
And then years later that god is Love and Joy
She taught me to improvise
But never compromise
And to smile
But not too much
Or people will think you're stupid
Butterflies
I still remember walking through summer
Hand in hand with her
Before I knew she was magick
Or even a woman
Only that she was my grandmother
There were more monarch butterflies then it seems
And they say calmly
Elegant here and there on the leaves and concrete
But when she tells the story
The butterflies are endless
Wings the colour of sunsets and moonless nights laid out like a tapenstry before us
And suddenly I
Remember it that way too
A Thought For Today
This past weekend I had the pleasure of sitting down with my grandmother. My Bubby: quick witted, strong willed, right about 95 years young, she's my favourite lady in all of the world that I've seen thus far. I bet that despite whatever travels I may yet have, she will remain as such. Proud and honest, uncompromising but always improvising, she is a pillar in my life, a role model, and my soul food. Even if she wasn't prophetic, spiritual, sharp tongued and at peace, she would mean just as much to me, but of course, she is all these things, and days later I'm still glowing from my brief time with her. I feel inspired, uplifted and renewed, and while I know that not everyone has a Bubby (for which I really am sorry), I hope that you can connect or reconnect with someone who brings you the same joy.
A Thought For Today
This past weekend I had the pleasure of sitting down with my grandmother. My Bubby: quick witted, strong willed, right about 95 years young, she's my favourite lady in all of the world that I've seen thus far. I bet that despite whatever travels I may yet have, she will remain as such. Proud and honest, uncompromising but always improvising, she is a pillar in my life, a role model, and my soul food. Even if she wasn't prophetic, spiritual, sharp tongued and at peace, she would mean just as much to me, but of course, she is all these things, and days later I'm still glowing from my brief time with her. I feel inspired, uplifted and renewed, and while I know that not everyone has a Bubby (for which I really am sorry), I hope that you can connect or reconnect with someone who brings you the same joy.
Go get 'em.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Change
My poetry comes out differently now
It floats out when I breathe
Spills from my eyes
Locks up my words
I can walk away now
From a blank and longing page
And my soul still dances in time with cosmic winds
And though on occasion
My poems still do leak through the nibs of my various pens
To fill the pores of this page
Canvas to my imagined genius
For the most part now
I inhabit the spaces between words
And each breath is a volume
A universe unto itself
It floats out when I breathe
Spills from my eyes
Locks up my words
I can walk away now
From a blank and longing page
And my soul still dances in time with cosmic winds
And though on occasion
My poems still do leak through the nibs of my various pens
To fill the pores of this page
Canvas to my imagined genius
For the most part now
I inhabit the spaces between words
And each breath is a volume
A universe unto itself
The Night Of
Mid winter vision quest
With a fresh subconcious seeker,
His skepticism washed away with the moment,
And a silent type
And me.
I feel like a fly
As on so many walls before
But he thought I was an angel
Or a witch,
And maybe we are all both
Once we get past our dogmas and jean size.
I am reminded how much
Summer nourishes me
And how very far away it is
But I am whole
Filled to bursting.
And come morning
Just myself and you
With your starlit memories
I know that my quest is complete
And my journey has just begun.
With a fresh subconcious seeker,
His skepticism washed away with the moment,
And a silent type
And me.
I feel like a fly
As on so many walls before
But he thought I was an angel
Or a witch,
And maybe we are all both
Once we get past our dogmas and jean size.
I am reminded how much
Summer nourishes me
And how very far away it is
But I am whole
Filled to bursting.
And come morning
Just myself and you
With your starlit memories
I know that my quest is complete
And my journey has just begun.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
On The Bus
I find myself in the back of the bus again
Scribbling bumpy lines to pass the time again
And I'm feeling like joining the ranks of the indelible and indecipherable
The esoteric symbols and names of the latest phase
Those with enough passion to feed their protests
Pointless and otherwise
And there is a small sanctuary found in the youthful ease of steel toed boots
Worn bright and arrogant
Ready to shitkick the world
And there is cool comfort in the company of those
Who still have the energy and naivete
To believe that they can change the world
Before it has the chance to change them
And though I still tend to be a proud member of a limited breed
The enraged vigilantes for beauty and civility
I am aware of all the cocoons I have sprung from
The countless daily concessions I make to compensate for my cosmopolitan cravings in this instant's society
But I still manage at times to muster the spark to design a few signs
Walk a few lines
And in flashes that seem on occasion to be
Duller and fewer and farther between
I find the fire to fully believe
That I can create art from this ongoing calamity
Build my own future
Buy a farm
Find my rhythm and learn to drum
And finally drop
Into something greater
By dropping out of this
Scribbling bumpy lines to pass the time again
And I'm feeling like joining the ranks of the indelible and indecipherable
The esoteric symbols and names of the latest phase
Those with enough passion to feed their protests
Pointless and otherwise
And there is a small sanctuary found in the youthful ease of steel toed boots
Worn bright and arrogant
Ready to shitkick the world
And there is cool comfort in the company of those
Who still have the energy and naivete
To believe that they can change the world
Before it has the chance to change them
And though I still tend to be a proud member of a limited breed
The enraged vigilantes for beauty and civility
I am aware of all the cocoons I have sprung from
The countless daily concessions I make to compensate for my cosmopolitan cravings in this instant's society
But I still manage at times to muster the spark to design a few signs
Walk a few lines
And in flashes that seem on occasion to be
Duller and fewer and farther between
I find the fire to fully believe
That I can create art from this ongoing calamity
Build my own future
Buy a farm
Find my rhythm and learn to drum
And finally drop
Into something greater
By dropping out of this
Friday, April 20, 2007
Butterflies
I still remember walking through summer
Hand in hand with her
Before I knew she was magick
Or even a woman
Only that she was my grandmother
There were more monarch butterflies then it seems
And they say calmly
Elegant here and there on the leaves and concrete
But when she tells the story
The butterflies are endless
Wings the colour of sunsets and moonless nights
laid out like a tapenstry before us
And suddenly I
Remember it that way too
Hand in hand with her
Before I knew she was magick
Or even a woman
Only that she was my grandmother
There were more monarch butterflies then it seems
And they say calmly
Elegant here and there on the leaves and concrete
But when she tells the story
The butterflies are endless
Wings the colour of sunsets and moonless nights
laid out like a tapenstry before us
And suddenly I
Remember it that way too
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Smile :)
She taught me the power of crystal
Then showed me that power in everything
She taught me to see in tea leaves, cards, and palms
And then taught me how to read people
She told me to stay close to God
And then years later that god is Love and Joy
She taught me to improvise
But never compromise
And to smile
But not too much
Or people will think you're stupid
Then showed me that power in everything
She taught me to see in tea leaves, cards, and palms
And then taught me how to read people
She told me to stay close to God
And then years later that god is Love and Joy
She taught me to improvise
But never compromise
And to smile
But not too much
Or people will think you're stupid
Friday, March 30, 2007
Coming Home
I've gone from grasping at intangibles
To forging my reality:
Melting down my unnecessary leftovers and outgrown bits
For recycling and reinvention
While passing bad twenties to buy some time.
Frankly
I am touched that you came
By fluke or design
To this point in time
To share your heart and space with me;
And though I have crafted sad shelters
Out of necessity and despair
Built fetid cocoons in the hopes of minty fresh recreation,
Only now can I
Raise my feet
Rest my head
And bask in home.
To forging my reality:
Melting down my unnecessary leftovers and outgrown bits
For recycling and reinvention
While passing bad twenties to buy some time.
Frankly
I am touched that you came
By fluke or design
To this point in time
To share your heart and space with me;
And though I have crafted sad shelters
Out of necessity and despair
Built fetid cocoons in the hopes of minty fresh recreation,
Only now can I
Raise my feet
Rest my head
And bask in home.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Recurring
Often in my dreams I am rolling to safety
Inches from impending wheels
Heart beating
Breath caught
Screaming not even a passing thought
I am rolling
To the curb
To the grassy dark ditch
Wherever
Away from on coming headlights
Always night
Usually raining
Or at the very least there are puddles
And damp cracks in the road
Too close to my face
As I roll out of the way just in time
And each time I am surprised
That I have made it
As the tires blow by my face
That I was not hit
Not killed
By the anonymous car that drives away without hesitation
While I lay roadside
Catching my breath and counting my blessings
Over
And over
Again
Inches from impending wheels
Heart beating
Breath caught
Screaming not even a passing thought
I am rolling
To the curb
To the grassy dark ditch
Wherever
Away from on coming headlights
Always night
Usually raining
Or at the very least there are puddles
And damp cracks in the road
Too close to my face
As I roll out of the way just in time
And each time I am surprised
That I have made it
As the tires blow by my face
That I was not hit
Not killed
By the anonymous car that drives away without hesitation
While I lay roadside
Catching my breath and counting my blessings
Over
And over
Again
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Message
Wrapped in ribbons of scented smoke
Doused in tea soaked steam
My mind slides to memories of you
With your wind whipped tresses dancing wild
Meadow grasses red and gold
Gowns flowing
Clinging
And you said
To live without fear
Because there will always be something to be afraid of
But living is a limited time offer
And from the endless depths of your eyes
From under your heavy lids
You told me that I had to laugh more
Especially when at wits end
To smile when it would be easier to cry
To sing before I scream
You brought the smells of wet earth and mating flowers along in your hair
To tell me that I had to live out loud
Or forgo my voice and just grin and nod along
And you left these fragrant memories
Like careful forest breadcrumbs
So that I may always find my way
Back to truth
Despite the distractions and misplaced destinies
Regardless of whatever fumes and fashions swirl around me momentarily
I carry your wisdom
And your smile
As my charms
Doused in tea soaked steam
My mind slides to memories of you
With your wind whipped tresses dancing wild
Meadow grasses red and gold
Gowns flowing
Clinging
And you said
To live without fear
Because there will always be something to be afraid of
But living is a limited time offer
And from the endless depths of your eyes
From under your heavy lids
You told me that I had to laugh more
Especially when at wits end
To smile when it would be easier to cry
To sing before I scream
You brought the smells of wet earth and mating flowers along in your hair
To tell me that I had to live out loud
Or forgo my voice and just grin and nod along
And you left these fragrant memories
Like careful forest breadcrumbs
So that I may always find my way
Back to truth
Despite the distractions and misplaced destinies
Regardless of whatever fumes and fashions swirl around me momentarily
I carry your wisdom
And your smile
As my charms
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Fallen
When stuck in the dirty asphalt grey of a nasty cloud
I understand that its inherent silver lining is nothing more than a distant and unlikely theory
But from all the times
You were able to see
The clouds of others from the outside
And tried to help them map their escapes
You must know there is sky
Beyond your sadness
I understand that its inherent silver lining is nothing more than a distant and unlikely theory
But from all the times
You were able to see
The clouds of others from the outside
And tried to help them map their escapes
You must know there is sky
Beyond your sadness
Unread
There is an anonymous sense of comfort
In the fact that you have no interest in my tidbits
Rhyming or otherwise
In the knowledge that no matter whose blood is spilled here
You will neither be witness to the carnage
Nor wrongfully implicated in the crime.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Bubby: A Thought For Today
This past weekend I had the pleasure of sitting down with my grandmother. My Bubby: quick witted, strong willed, right about 95 years young, she's my favourite lady in all of the world that I've seen thus far. I bet that despite whatever travels I may yet have, she will remain as such.
Proud and honest, uncompromising but always improvising, she is a pillar in my life, a role model, and my soul food. Even if she wasn't prophetic, spiritual, sharp tongued and at peace, she would mean just as much to me, but of course, she is all these things, and days later I'm still glowing from my brief time with her.
I feel inspired, uplifted and renewed, and while I know that not everyone has a Bubby (for which I really am sorry), I hope that you can connect or reconnect with someone who brings you the same joy.
Go get 'em.
Proud and honest, uncompromising but always improvising, she is a pillar in my life, a role model, and my soul food. Even if she wasn't prophetic, spiritual, sharp tongued and at peace, she would mean just as much to me, but of course, she is all these things, and days later I'm still glowing from my brief time with her.
I feel inspired, uplifted and renewed, and while I know that not everyone has a Bubby (for which I really am sorry), I hope that you can connect or reconnect with someone who brings you the same joy.
Go get 'em.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
New Pics
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
You said I was destined
To plant flowers in anonymous fields
And write poetry in chalk on walls by streetlight.
While I have done neither
I have pasted my pages to mall bathroom stalls
In the hopes that some captured audience
Would be touched
And often
Upon seeing spots of spontaneous and unlikely beauty
My mind has wandered to you.
To plant flowers in anonymous fields
And write poetry in chalk on walls by streetlight.
While I have done neither
I have pasted my pages to mall bathroom stalls
In the hopes that some captured audience
Would be touched
And often
Upon seeing spots of spontaneous and unlikely beauty
My mind has wandered to you.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Burnt Dream
I dreamed of fire last night
Nothing all encompassing
Only my bedroom burned down
(A subtle reminder not to let visitors smoke in bed)
I ran headstrong into the smoke screen
In a frantic daze
Convinced as always that I
In my amazement and indignation
Am in fact more potent than mere flame
And my only preoccupations were to salvage some of my favourite pieces
-- Paper mostly, and that unfinished --
Along with a few necessary props and personas to see me through
Arms full of trash and trinkets
I ran into the street
Into the wide open dark
Naked and singed
And I woke up sweaty
Holding you
Nothing all encompassing
Only my bedroom burned down
(A subtle reminder not to let visitors smoke in bed)
I ran headstrong into the smoke screen
In a frantic daze
Convinced as always that I
In my amazement and indignation
Am in fact more potent than mere flame
And my only preoccupations were to salvage some of my favourite pieces
-- Paper mostly, and that unfinished --
Along with a few necessary props and personas to see me through
Arms full of trash and trinkets
I ran into the street
Into the wide open dark
Naked and singed
And I woke up sweaty
Holding you
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Missed Call
I believe it was you
Who called just now.
Rang and rang my phone
But hung up on my answering machine
While I ran through the hall
Naked
My hair soaked and raining down
My skin exploding in goosebumps
To get to the phone
And standing bare and alone
All I got was the click of your goodbye.
So I ask that next time
You're looking to share
Some of your beautiful words
Please do leave a message if I don't get to the phone in time.
I could use the air.
Who called just now.
Rang and rang my phone
But hung up on my answering machine
While I ran through the hall
Naked
My hair soaked and raining down
My skin exploding in goosebumps
To get to the phone
And standing bare and alone
All I got was the click of your goodbye.
So I ask that next time
You're looking to share
Some of your beautiful words
Please do leave a message if I don't get to the phone in time.
I could use the air.
No Room
There is no room here for the inaccuracies of language.
There is no space in the air between us
To grope for adjectives and flowers
Or rediscover the forgotten art of romantic metaphor
In this moment of clarity
Where we are
And can
Just be
There is no need to articulate
This ocean inside of me
And if poetry comes from struggle and sadness
Then I will lock my lips and dance wildly
Around your fire.
(2005)
There is no space in the air between us
To grope for adjectives and flowers
Or rediscover the forgotten art of romantic metaphor
In this moment of clarity
Where we are
And can
Just be
There is no need to articulate
This ocean inside of me
And if poetry comes from struggle and sadness
Then I will lock my lips and dance wildly
Around your fire.
(2005)
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Future
When we talk about the future
We speak in serious tones pierced by lilting laughter
Frequent pauses
In which we stop
To enjoy the view
Speculation and dream weaving are fine arts
Requiring patience and on occasion
Held breath and hushed voices
As we place the flowers
In the garden we will grow
We speak in serious tones pierced by lilting laughter
Frequent pauses
In which we stop
To enjoy the view
Speculation and dream weaving are fine arts
Requiring patience and on occasion
Held breath and hushed voices
As we place the flowers
In the garden we will grow
Upon Finding You Away
If the moments of my life
Are the poems you've been waiting for
I will bundle them up in a bow and
Leave them
Unedited
On your doorstep for your perusal
Don't think of them as a sacrifice but
As a meager donation
To your grandiose cause
Your big picture scene
Larger and liver than its bare bits
And if you find my pieces to be passable
Fit to find themselves on your hallowed shelves
They will be the proud testaments
To my humble blind faith
That you will get this message at all
Are the poems you've been waiting for
I will bundle them up in a bow and
Leave them
Unedited
On your doorstep for your perusal
Don't think of them as a sacrifice but
As a meager donation
To your grandiose cause
Your big picture scene
Larger and liver than its bare bits
And if you find my pieces to be passable
Fit to find themselves on your hallowed shelves
They will be the proud testaments
To my humble blind faith
That you will get this message at all
Posting Problems
Okay....so sorry for the various delays. As I commented, I haven't been able to convert to the NEW Blogger and can't log into my old account, and was/am trapped in limbo. I've gotten in by going to RECOVER PASSWORD and getting in through my email. If you're having this problem, I suggest you do the same. =)
I'm may still be in the aforementioned limbo, but it's post-erific baby!!!
(Thanx for noticing my absence...I feel the love!)
I'm may still be in the aforementioned limbo, but it's post-erific baby!!!
(Thanx for noticing my absence...I feel the love!)
Friday, January 05, 2007
55 Word Stories
1.
“But I saw it!” Jimmy protested.
“No you didn’t. Fairies are only in stories.”
“What about the Tooth Fairy?”
“My brother says your mom does that.”
Jimmy wondered how his mom knew when every kid in the world lost a tooth.
“But it was glowing and had wings,” Jimmy pressed.
“It must’ve been an angel.”
2.
It was funny to see him lying there. Not funny ha-ha, but funny weird. There were butterflies loose in her stomach; she was glad she’d skipped breakfast.
He looked smaller than she remembered, like a doll in a box, and no doubt just as light, un-tethered by the weight of his life or his innards.
3.
“Hurry up, I hear someone.”
“You’re paranoid,” Jessi sneered.
Heather stood in the empty corridor chewing her fingernails to blood, eyes bouncing from door to door. The home-ec class had burned their assignment; she could smell it.
“Okay, let’s go,” Jessi called, and they ran, leaving their handiwork behind, SLUT scrawled across the grey locker.
4.
To her, poems were drugs, absorbed to alter the mind. She had to have them, and wanted them to be a part of her somehow.
She was on the verge of eating them, she explained.
“Why don’t you bathe in them?” he laughed.
She shrugged, tearing the pages from their binding as the tub filled.
“But I saw it!” Jimmy protested.
“No you didn’t. Fairies are only in stories.”
“What about the Tooth Fairy?”
“My brother says your mom does that.”
Jimmy wondered how his mom knew when every kid in the world lost a tooth.
“But it was glowing and had wings,” Jimmy pressed.
“It must’ve been an angel.”
2.
It was funny to see him lying there. Not funny ha-ha, but funny weird. There were butterflies loose in her stomach; she was glad she’d skipped breakfast.
He looked smaller than she remembered, like a doll in a box, and no doubt just as light, un-tethered by the weight of his life or his innards.
3.
“Hurry up, I hear someone.”
“You’re paranoid,” Jessi sneered.
Heather stood in the empty corridor chewing her fingernails to blood, eyes bouncing from door to door. The home-ec class had burned their assignment; she could smell it.
“Okay, let’s go,” Jessi called, and they ran, leaving their handiwork behind, SLUT scrawled across the grey locker.
4.
To her, poems were drugs, absorbed to alter the mind. She had to have them, and wanted them to be a part of her somehow.
She was on the verge of eating them, she explained.
“Why don’t you bathe in them?” he laughed.
She shrugged, tearing the pages from their binding as the tub filled.
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