veronica-smithWhisper

Sort

Sort

The American Dream on a Tuesday MorningShe sat in an empty booth. It was a Tuesday, mild, with a thin veil of cirrus clouds on the horizon. Somewhere a dog barked. Outside, the Commercial Street Flower Market opened for business. A ********** stood on the corner. / With one the sitting woman opened the menu, scanned it, and dropped it back on the table. A bleach-blond waitress arrived. Before the waitress spoke, the sitting woman cut in. / “I’d like home fries, fruit salad, and a cup of earl grey, please.” The waitress nodded, slightly wary, and scribbled the order on her yellowed order pad. The woman went back to staring at her fingers. The waitress left.

34

3.4k

Restroom MirrorsThe girl’s corneas expand over the small black abyss of pupil / Tides of blue and hazel rising over onyx isles / An unhinged eyelash balances precariously on its neighbor

47

2.2k

Too Small for SecretsThis town is too small for secrets / The sidewalks are adorned with names and dates / Of couples whose love dissolved twenty years ago

38

2.1k

needthe telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight / and i can see you / huddling over a stranger's phone in the streetlamp glare

40

1.7k

SpectaclesTo you, it is a spectacle / You watch with congealed disgust and cloying pity / Perverse satisfaction oozes from your pores

23

1.6k

The Conwoman of San FranciscoThe wharf was busy; it was a Saturday and the sun was high in the sky. Strangely enough, it was hot. She wanted to get to the deYoung in time. / Eliza pulled impatiently on the hand and pulled her toward the circle of people, who were no doubt watching a street urchin or a performer. / “No, honey,” her mother said, “not today.” Eliza didn’t listen and ran up, wedging herself between the bodies of bystanders.

10

1.3k

One Small (mis)Step for ManWhat if Neil tripped down those famed steps / One small ***st-*** / And collapsed in a heap of vacuum-resistant debris

11

1.3k

AnatomyHis shoulders fascinate you; / Both mechanical and organic, / Soft, capable, broad

21

1.2k

The Death of Amy MadisonAccording to the minister, we’re lucky to have found you, although I think you’d have liked it better up there, where the grass isn’t golf course green and the mourners are nonexistent. I wanted to scream when he said that but momma was leaning hard against me and her breath was coming in harsh against my ear and I stood there with making fists until I couldn’t feel the cold. Dad was holding on to her hard and his mouth was a straight colorless line and his breath came out his nostrils in big measured puffs like the steam train in the railroad museum back in Lincoln. I didn’t cry at all, just stood there feeling sick to my stomach and bracing myself against momma’s leaning. In the back of the group of mourners I saw David and his eyes were down and he avoided my gaze. / The minister was the young one from Partridge who you once told me gave you eyes, back when you came to church. He looked sad like an actor looks sad on one of those TV commercials for antidepressants. He paused too much. When he spoke, he fumbled over the words and sounded them out like a third grader—sa-salvay-salvashin-salvation. It was like Aunt Stu’s funeral, with the same fake-looking flowers and the same ugly black pinafores, only hers was open casket and yours wasn’t. / The tables were loaded with wedding-style lilies even though your obit said *in lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the River’s Edge Animal Rescue Center.* Each tablecloth had a neat stack of Thomas Mortuary Services’ business cards in a holder and they served bland finger sandwiches with diluted instant coffee afterward. It was the kind of thing that youd’ve laughed at and blamed the church for.

6

1.1k

I will be your favorite enemyThis morning you opened a door for me / And asked me rather sweetly how I was / And I stared at my face reflected above your shoulder

62

961

Hello PoetryVoting