Tag: poetry
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Veatrice
I could drink the thunder in some evenings, let the roaring of it all put a rumble in my chest— holler out, and be heard. Yet I lack the grace that should be winding through my veins by way of my great-grandmother: a woman who was not once, but twice, slapped down by strikes of…
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Passing
Grief wrapped around me last night, reminding me of the hardest ache I’ve learned to live with. I curled into the bend of the couch, recalling silly things and finding solace in the way the night moves. Loss has lent itself to our family in the same season it visited last; the evening makes the…
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Butter Pecan
For as long as I can remember, the chair across from the television was where I would sink into for safety. She was there, my grandmother, sitting on the couch: half Indian-style, her left foot curled under her right knee and her other leg stretched out, hanging off the edge of the cushions. On commercials,…
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Movement
There’s enough anger in the air to strangle anyone. Anyone can say they’d do this or that. That isn’t the point here. Here and now makes our tomorrow. Tomorrow is the focus. Focus on that – that we need tomorrow. Tomorrow will be our truth. Truth is noted after the fact. Fact isn’t respected in the…
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Absolution
I forgave to forget what you would not let go. Even then, it still felt wrong to right what you pushed as I tried to pull away. Won’t you let me say that this, it is not easy, forgiving the living. But, know this: I owe you nothing else . Sometimes it all comes down…
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Dependent
I’ve little to say to you; I’m still finding new places to hide. You lurk in the middle of the room, oblivious to your harm, and I find myself in the shadows, hoping you do not see me. Our roles seem reversed to anyone…
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Dear Parents:
Strike the soft skin of your children; leave marks. Go on: show them how hard they must become to be like you. Mold them to be mindless: coach them to react with fists; make them believe that words have little worth. Shape them into an almighty monster: modern man. Destroy their purity and imagination by…
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Drought
I witch for water. Walking blindly, I concentrate on my effort. I am desperate, you say. You watch for rain. Staring blindly, you believe it will come. You have faith, you say. It is in your nature to trust in what you need. Nature does not need you. I witch for water; you watch for…
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Kathryn
1200 miles from home on the southeast side of Vermont, I sat at a table outfitted with strawberry rhubarb pie and sweet tea good enough for any southerner. Below, a blind mare bumped into the side of the barn-turned-home of a woman who had invited me into her way of life long before I left…
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Eleven Years
He gets confused sometimes— gets up, walks a few steps, –pauses– looks blankly ahead then turns around, sits back down slowly. The doctor says it’s dementia; it’s just the beginning, really. It’s in his eyes, though: everything. He’s not forgotten anything; I’ve not, either— not the way he sat with me quietly through the years:…
Rachel Nix 