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Stefanie Meade Jul 2014
The soil remembers
each flower that bloomed
and died upon it,
each drop of blood,
each insect,
each fruit,
and carries these beloved ghosts
within it,
waiting for new life.
Stefanie Meade May 2014
My father and I sit side by side at the vet's office
my first dog sits between our feet
panting in pain, eaten by cancer.

I stroke her black fur.
I have never known death before,
but I know
this is the right thing to do.

My father has known death.
He is silent, somber.
He didn't want this.
Even after she stopped eating,
and started whimpering,
he didn't want this.
My mother and I forced him
to come here.

We sit and wait for our turn.
I wonder how many of these animals
sitting  around us will die today,
and if they know.

'It's the waiting I can't stand," I tell my father.
He shakes his head, his hair almost as dark
as the dog's fur.
'Don't say that. Once it's over, it's over.'

I turn away.
I have not learned this yet,
the finality of things.

I have not yet realized,
how much of life is
really just waiting for the needle,
the knife, the bullet, the bad news.

I don't yet know that life is what happens
between the skin and the needle,
that the thin sliver between
existence and oblivion
is where our entire world rests.

Then they call her name,
and I learn.

'Want to go for ice cream?" he asks me, after.
His despair is heavy and silent.
"No, but we can, if you want to," I say.
my first really vivid childhood experience with death.
Stefanie Meade May 2014
Slow warm decay of days passing
this soft cotton music, everyday lull
does not fit
does not fit
the hard final chill I know is coming
the grinding of bone against gravity and time.

No matter what words I scatter
luminous pearl pathways
will get ground to dust, eventually,
under marching boots.

You fool yourself,
thinking they will gleam forever.

We are so alive right now.
This cruel and vibrant world
that we have all built together--
how can it end? How can it crumble?
How can we die?
Why can we die?
We can all feel it does not fit.
Cognitive dissonance, thinking of life and death.
Stefanie Meade May 2014
When they called
there was only one question
they wanted answered,
though they always asked it
in different ways.
Did he love me?
Does he love me?
Will he love me?
Sometimes they spoke of jobs
of houses, of children and family,
but these were nothing
but a backdrop against which
this horde of lonely, faceless women
propped up a mannequin of longing.
I spent several years as a phone psychic, reading tarot cards for people. In the end, there was only one thing 95% of them wanted to know.
Stefanie Meade May 2014
You stood on the border
between the front yard
and the wilderness stretching out
into the shifting hills of sunset.
You were an inky shape against the land
gazing back at me with dark, gleaming eyes.
Wild eyes, born to this place,
filled with primal truth.
I was only a child,
but I knew you were going somewhere
I could not follow.
We lived in West Virginia when I was kid, and the house we got came with a puppy who had been born there. She was my first dog, an all-black lab mix, and she was smart and sweet, but had a wild streak, and needed to roam. When we moved out of the country and into town because of Dad's work, and she couldn't roam anymore, she started getting sick and eventually died of cancer. I think leaving the land she loved drained her of the will to fight. She would always stop and look back at me before she went out roaming, and that is how I remember her.
Stefanie Meade May 2014
Someday I will have a house
where the sun pours through the windows like honey
and the gentle moon gazes at me as I sleep,
where I can bask in the star shine...
Somewhere away from here
away from this cramped den
of murky shadows and burning, soulless street lights.  

Someday I will have a garden
with mimosa trees and the perfume of honeysuckle
filled with butterflies, with strawberries,
with crisp cucumbers and tender tomatoes,
and my hands will smell of mint
from my fragrant herb garden...
Somewhere away from here,
where not even a tree grows on my street
where the view is a drainage ditch,
dumpsters, broken glass,
and stained mattresses thrown onto the sidewalk.

Someday I will open my windows
and hear the sweet birds sing,
and the crickets chirp,
and hear the song of the wind
chiming like fairy music...
Somewhere away from here,
where the sound of a shot tears the night,
where the cars never stop,
and our upstairs neighbors stomp in concrete boots
all day and dark.

I will not let despair steal my someday.
I will escape this place.
I hate my neighborhood. We *will* get out here... I just don't know when.
Stefanie Meade Apr 2014
He wants a sugar spun girl-
no lemon *****, no licorice, no peppermint.
Hard rock candy.

You gotta be sweet for him to crave you.
Sweet on the tongue, sweet on the eyes
in a package easy to tear, pop, unfold.

He likes it dayglo and with sprinkles,
marshmallow soft,
moldable and meltable ,
milk chocolate, white chocolate.
He shies away from bitterness.

Don't you dare fill him up.
He has a real meal waiting,
somewhere else, later.

Your job is
to be consumed.
What you need doesn't matter.

He wants candy, girl, not a meal.
Better sugar coat it,
or he won’t buy you
and you want to be bought,
don't you?
Pop culture treats many women and girls  like nothing but a product to be consumed and used. Sadly, a lot of these same women and girls buy into this, or aspire to it.
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