you
not the flower but
the bee kissing
rosebuds, making
living things
bloom

you
no sunrise on
mountains but
the sun
herself, every
flame burning fierce
sploding gainst
the sky

you
not an ocean but
a stream softly
babbling
and rescuing
us,
the lonely
the lost

you
not forever
but tragically
temporary
and every
moment
you are here
i will be
what i am -
the pollen,
the planets,
the wanderer,
the poet -
dedicated to
loving
you

I call my grandma
Mama Myriam,

She’s my dads mom,
So I didn’t spend

Much time with her
Growing up

That doesn’t matter
To her when I call,

She talks as if she
Loves unconditionally,

So difficult to understand,
But the time goes on.

And she tell stories,
Not the ones in books

But the ones that make
Her scars ache,

And I listen,
Attentive,  

Patient,
Quiet,

As the city outside
Rumbles the windows,

And my furniture
Decays where it stands,

She tells her stories,
With a cat on her lap,

You can almost hear
The purrs through

The phone,
And what stories she tells,

About love, and life,
And betrayal, and abuse,

What a life she has lived,
She thanks me for listening,

With an “I love you”
As I ready up to hang up,

No, Mamá,
Thank you.

Who Will Miss Me

Who will miss me
anyway?
The Autumn’s imperative
signals the
long division of my
mind.

Under the geography of
Love is a fear that
nothing

Matters.

Longhaired dreams are
features of the young.

It's the Emblem of the
70's.  The crusts of the
untried. No matter
tears on the rheum.

Why wait for love?

There is a
whisper
in the

afternoon.

Only the sad
know

Literature.


Caroline Shank
August 31, 2024

I walked
The exhibitions
Of the zoo
With someone
I hurt,
I didn’t
Feel there
All the way,
I hid in the
Aquarium
And the bug
house,
Since it
Was a hot
Summer day,
Lost and
confused,
I watched
the glitter
Fall off
The look
In her eyes,
Turning into
Flint that
sparked
A fired
burning
All the love
She had
For me.

God, my heart has carved
A hole open in my chest,
Learned to walk and
Started running away
From me.

What will I do now,
That he’s not here
To guide me through,
Oh, lantern in the night,
Why have you escaped,
When we both know
It was my idea,

The ground that I stand
On now feels misplaced
And out of shape, wobbly
Like a bouncy castle with
The top open so you can
Observe the top of the trees,
And the skyline and the stars,
Play catch with the moon.

But I’m not a kid anymore,
And every time the drop
Fills the cavity left open
With fear that the ground
Will some how change back.

Sometimes life feels  
like a train station,  
some depart wearing  
suits and ties,  
with heavy leather  
bags dangling  
from their hips  
as if to show the  
world how strong  
their legs are.

Others arrive
with their heart  
bleeding from  
their sleeves,  
with PTSD  
and memories of  
ruins of war  
that change their  
perspective as  
they drag their feet  
on shiny marble  
tiles that got  
polished the  
night before,  
so they glide  
through their way  
home.

I’ve departed before,
I’ve felt the  
cocoon inside  
my stomach  
hatch into butterflies,  
as the tip  
of my fingers felt  
the inside  
of a train that no  
longer will  
arrive to this station.

Since I’ve
been back,  
the sky  
hasn’t been  
the same shade  
of blue,  
or the stars haven’t  
flickered the  
same Morse code,  
but “I’ve won”  
I say to myself,  
not by chasing the train,
but by letting it pass,
by finding calm
in the station,
and in the realization
that my journey
is where I stand amongst  
the multitude of people,  
a sea of  
distinguishable universes,  
each with their destination,  
succumbed by life and its mysteries.

I’m glad,
for them, for all of us.