It was on a crisp autumn night that I
sat alone beside you
for the first time in nearly four years.
The shadows of the looming pines surrounding me
seemed to press and pressure my eyes to slip
down six feet under along with
the bleeding sun as it continued to
decamp from the sky. It slid so smoothly
past the towering pines while the
silvery fist of the moon
shoved it roughly back to the west;
I thought about how you mustn’t like the night
because of the chill that often comes
hand in hand with the darkness.
For a moment, I considered
the slight possibility of my body heat
leaching down through the earth
and into your bones.
I wondered how cold it is to
sleep underground and then I
wondered if angels felt the
creeping chill of the
foreshadowing frost in the first place.
I thought that everything significant
must happen on Thursdays because
your book began and ended on
the fifth day—
born on the same day of the week
you and I compare and contrast
like long
lost
twins.
Sometimes I half-expect to see
your ghost staring back at me
when I look in the mirror and to be
completely honest, I’m not sure
what I’m more afraid of—
the possibility that you might not be the same
or the chance that you might be so
disappointed in what you see in me
now that we are separated.
The divide between us runs deep
into the earth and creates a whole
new fault line, rent and ruptured
beyond all forms of repair.
The breath I breathe is the
bridge between us;
the bed you sleep in is the
total distance.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
It was on a crisp autumn night that I
sat alone beside you
for the first time in nearly four years.
The shadows of the looming pines surrounding me
seemed to press and pressure my eyes to slip
down six feet under along with
the bleeding sun as it continued to
decamp from the sky. It slid so smoothly
past the towering pines while the
silvery fist of the moon
shoved it roughly back to the west;
I thought about how you mustn’t like the night
because of the chill that often comes
hand in hand with the darkness.
For a moment, I considered
the slight possibility of my body heat
leaching down through the earth
and into your bones.
I wondered how cold it is to
sleep underground and then I
wondered if angels felt the
creeping chill of the
foreshadowing frost in the first place.
I thought that everything significant
must happen on Thursdays because
your book began and ended on
the fifth day—
born on the same day of the week
you and I compare and contrast
like long
lost
twins.
Sometimes I half-expect to see
your ghost staring back at me
when I look in the mirror and to be
completely honest, I’m not sure
what I’m more afraid of—
the possibility that you might not be the same
or the chance that you might be so
disappointed in what you see in me
now that we are separated.
The divide between us runs deep
into the earth and creates a whole
new fault line, rent and ruptured
beyond all forms of repair.
The breath I breathe is the
bridge between us;
the bed you sleep in is the
total distance.
Mommy poetry. Please give me constructive criticism.
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