Before sleeves fight off chills, leaves begin to pour
Onto the raw ground, outside the window, as if they were tears
That belonged to the trees. Inside the glum house, their star
Is placed on the fridge with a glitter border to catch every eye,
But their own. They try turning away from her making the winning shot
At the basketball game, last season. Below the urn, the firewood burns
To thaw the bitter home, as the light providing candles burn
Out from exhaustion. The mother tip-toes to the kitchen to pour
Away her independence—maybe she’ll come back after the next shot,
Then I’ll stop—into a glass. Since the disaster last winter, silent tears
Can be heard only within oneself, but can be seen in their eyes
By those throughout the town. Not even a wish on a shooting star
Can bring her back now. The father only peeks up at the stars
When he goes for his evening strolls, his faithfulness has burnt
Away since she’s been gone, and everyday gets harder for his eyes
To process his vacant house. The town looks on and prays for the poor
Family, as they drag their feet to church; their son permanently in tears;
Forcing his memory to destroy the images. He ignores everything, but the shot
Echoing in his ears. He saw the blood embracing her after the shot;
Her body sprawled out on the red snow. Their basketball star,
Gone in an instant. This is all he sees—he tries to save her, but the tears
In his mother’s eyes tell him she’s already gone—as he stares into the burning
Fire. He hears his mother clink the bottle to the glass as she pours
Herself another round. He can hear her ask herself, “Why wasn’t it I
Who got struck by that bullet? Why would God even consider the i-
Dea that is was her turn? God, why didn’t you give her another shot?”
The mother takes the last gulp; she reaches for the bottle to pour
Another, but her eyes land on the photo of her fallen star.
She looks away and begins to cry. The fire continues to burn,
Keeping the house warm, as the son stares into the flames and tears
Continue to roll off his warm cheeks. The mother stands there, tears
Run down her face, her husband begins to hug her. In the corner of his eye,
The son sees his parents embracing, as the fire slowly stops burning;
He joins them. They all embrace each other and the echoing shot
Diminishes in the son’s ears. The struggle is not over, and her star
Is not forgotten, but that midnight drink was the last that she would pour.
Years go by, but that night stays burnt in their memories. Not so many tears
Are falling from the trees or eyes, this time of year; only the rain pours,
And at night all that can be spotted is the shot of a shooting star.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
Before sleeves fight off chills, leaves begin to pour
Onto the raw ground, outside the window, as if they were tears
That belonged to the trees. Inside the glum house, their star
Is placed on the fridge with a glitter border to catch every eye,
But their own. They try turning away from her making the winning shot
At the basketball game, last season. Below the urn, the firewood burns
To thaw the bitter home, as the light providing candles burn
Out from exhaustion. The mother tip-toes to the kitchen to pour
Away her independence—maybe she’ll come back after the next shot,
Then I’ll stop—into a glass. Since the disaster last winter, silent tears
Can be heard only within oneself, but can be seen in their eyes
By those throughout the town. Not even a wish on a shooting star
Can bring her back now. The father only peeks up at the stars
When he goes for his evening strolls, his faithfulness has burnt
Away since she’s been gone, and everyday gets harder for his eyes
To process his vacant house. The town looks on and prays for the poor
Family, as they drag their feet to church; their son permanently in tears;
Forcing his memory to destroy the images. He ignores everything, but the shot
Echoing in his ears. He saw the blood embracing her after the shot;
Her body sprawled out on the red snow. Their basketball star,
Gone in an instant. This is all he sees—he tries to save her, but the tears
In his mother’s eyes tell him she’s already gone—as he stares into the burning
Fire. He hears his mother clink the bottle to the glass as she pours
Herself another round. He can hear her ask herself, “Why wasn’t it I
Who got struck by that bullet? Why would God even consider the i-
Dea that is was her turn? God, why didn’t you give her another shot?”
The mother takes the last gulp; she reaches for the bottle to pour
Another, but her eyes land on the photo of her fallen star.
She looks away and begins to cry. The fire continues to burn,
Keeping the house warm, as the son stares into the flames and tears
Continue to roll off his warm cheeks. The mother stands there, tears
Run down her face, her husband begins to hug her. In the corner of his eye,
The son sees his parents embracing, as the fire slowly stops burning;
He joins them. They all embrace each other and the echoing shot
Diminishes in the son’s ears. The struggle is not over, and her star
Is not forgotten, but that midnight drink was the last that she would pour.
Years go by, but that night stays burnt in their memories. Not so many tears
Are falling from the trees or eyes, this time of year; only the rain pours,
And at night all that can be spotted is the shot of a shooting star.