"shavings" poems
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park
combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks
joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds
wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound
jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past
barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch
brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place
shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
Mid-October,
with leaves spilled
like colored pencil shavings ---
the streets dicing our town
into neat, unfair portions ---
and me, eatin' that *****
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
Do you hate the way
that our magnetized times
turn us all to metal shavings--
push and pull--charged each
day to fill up negative space
with negative attraction?
Were you repulsed when polarities
changed?
Or was that me?
Flipping switches
switching sides
siding
with pivot points showing, caught
with pants down?
"Be a man now!"
While the female end
of the port calls out,
"Shipwreck! Shipwreck!
All men down!"
Count me out at minus 4
it leaves a balance: minus 3
At minus 10, our blood could freeze
and fall back earthward; blood red snow.
Caught on the tongue it tastes like pennies.
Tastes just like
the metal shavings
we become
in magnetized times.
Polarized
and "Family Sized." Underpaid
Overfed. Neutralized America.
Greatest country in the ******* world.
Right?
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
With a warm load of folded laundry under my chin
I head toward Daniel’s sock drawer
Pulling on the carefully crafted handle I see
My grandfather cutting and planning the cherry tree
Dropped by Hurricane Carol in 1954
Wood shavings fall about his work boots as he
Shapes each panel, never using a ruler, all by eye
Boxing the frame, sizing the drawers, sanding surfaces
By hand, hence 60 years of grandkids and great grandkids socks
The drawer closes effortlessly with a sound
Of living heirlooms and heritage
Of legacy and family
A sound that everything is safe inside
That memorials are made to last
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
i love you,
fresh from
the shower.
glistening and wet,
smelling of aftershave.
"coolwater" by davidoff. often aslo sandlewood,
goat soap, from the local
farmers markets.
i love you,
dressed up smart.
in a brook's brother's way
dress pants and shirt,
blue linen vest.
johnny walker silk bow tie,
untied is best. then your twist,
(not as original as you think)
converse skaties, no socks
and bone bleached cuffs,
turned up.
i love you,
in your work gear.
just come home,
you smell of sweat.
clean and healthy,
always wood shavings
caught up, in your
unruly shaggy hair.
cargo shorts and
t-shirts,
that have seen,
many days of worksite wear.
size elevens in your hands,
those big feet and freaky toes
bare, ******* in the air.
i love you,
in board shorts and rashie.
rushing into the surf,
hand in hand.
with the energetic bundle
of love,
to which we gave birth.
it is not as though,
clothes made this man,
but boyohboy, you, frame them well.
it s the heart, the chuckle
the hands, the philosphy,
the clever, erudite, caveman,
the downright,
man-dumb bloke.
that endears, your heart to
mine.
it is, that you really listen
and take the time,
to make me feel and be,
phenomenal, wise, sensual
and beautiful beside.
i love you,
best, in my bed.
moving slow and sure,
undressed, silk and velvet.
as we express,
the reality of our love
and whisper words,
well known,
and cry to heaven above.
i love you,
then, here, now and eons
on.
even after the worlds
memory of us,
is nothing,
dust upon the breeze
our love,
will carry, forth
stardust on heaven's winds
and cries of our love and ecstasy
will birth worlds anew
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
the cherry blossom accord/equation
”perfumers use aromachemicals to recreate a cherry blossom accord...(an accord is a scent made up of individual aromachemicals, that when combined, create a harmonious blend where none of the individual ingredients are able to be detected on their own).”
the odor of our lustful eyes,
the sweat, a unique commingling,
a sheen of salted oils body bathing,
crushed green petals of peaches,
crumbled together with the softy fuzz shavings,
the sediment of aromatic fruit juices drippings
our blending bottled in our brains,
none other would recognize but we,
to too two smell each other through and over
floors, concourses, cities, disparate distances
our ingredients secreted (secret),
our flavors cell secreted (secreting)
the world’s silly tittering aroma inserted,
our sparking fingertips touching
add a bush burning burnt odiferous
we seat across from each other in an airport
plastic restaraunt and everyone asks out loudly,
what is that smell, feed me that, taste me that,
as we are irradiating the atmosphere,
as we renegotiate our cherry blossom accord,
fresh signatures, updated, harmony of harmonies, notarized
she smiles, I joke, winking,
we must continue
to meet like this,
the fireworks of we,
of us,
to-gather to-gether,
a getting of giving,
she answers:
*take me home and
bathe me in love,
give our bodies shelter
from the world outside,
beside a new spice
have I uncovered,
this will require some
discussion+exploration,
the quantity to be added,
the when, and the how!*
what is this new ingredient?
asking puzzled and aroused,
she laughs
(a spice already included),
why it’s called
only love poetry
8/23/19 4:55pm
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 5:06 PM UTC
There is a period of time
Immediately proceeding a conversation you had
Where you shared, what you are sure in retrospect,
Was too much
And when they go its nearly silent
Aside from the car engine
Your ears are on fire
On one hand you’re glad you said it
On the other hand
You wish to rewind
And unsay the things you did.
Reverse and greedily fill your arms with all the
Pieces of yourself you’d given away freely.
They’re yours and they don’t own them.
But like a dusty collection of spoons,
From all fifty states,
You know that you have no use
Harboring those thoughts.
Maybe they will somehow affect that person
And help them when they’re feeling down
But you doubt it.
They won’t fully understand,
Because you’re a bad story teller
Who can’t describe the feeling of the sun
On the tops of your legs and interpolated
Between your toes.
And you're selfish and don’t care
You feel incomplete now and hope
That maybe, just maybe
They weren’t even listening to you ramble
Or couldn’t understand you
Or cast the little wads of memories away
Like pencil shavings
Which are fun for a little under an hour.
And you’ve almost convinced yourself
Until you see them, and they see you
And open their mouth to say something-
And like some horror movie
The secrets come swarming.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
She ******* constantly about
cigarette smoke.
Of course, when she’s drunk, she
smokes all mine.
And while she’s complaining
she’s taking snipes that
I wake up at six in the
morning to dig out of
ashtrays—walking miles to get.
It’s laughable.
She sits there with a
***** **** hanging
loosely from her hand and
says,
“I don’t like my
apartment smelling like
cigarettes.”
I say,
“Then don’t smoke.”
She says,
“Why don’t you buy some
real cigarettes—I’ll show
you what real
cigarettes taste like.”
Then she storms
off, all *** and hair flying.
She comes back with a
pack of smokes and a
cigar box.
“I paid two dollars for this, you can
put all your ***** butts in here.”
It’s actually beautiful.
It’s made of cedar and
would look great with
a cactus in it.
There are wood shavings at
the bottom, her
money would have been
better spent on
a dollar pack of rolling papers.
I’m field stripping the
snow embossed butts and using
cut up pieces of the
yellow pages to roll
cigarettes that I’m able to smoke.
She doesn’t have
a clue.
She only smokes when
she’s drinking.
Mar 1, 2023
Mar 1, 2023 at 7:19 AM UTC
Only those who have used an outhouse would appreciate this.
The Outhouse Poem by unknown author
The service station trade was slow
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and cedar stick
Piled shavings on the ground.
No modern facilities had they,
The log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked His and Hers
That sat against the hill.
"Where is the ladies restroom, Sir ?"
The owner leaning back,
Said not a word but whittled on,
And nodded toward the shack.
With quickened step she entered there
But only stayed a minute,
Until she screamed, just like a snake
Or spider might be in it.
With startled look and beet red face
She bounded through the door,
And headed quickly for the car
Just like three gals before.
She missed the foot log - jumped the stream
The owner gave a shout,
As her silk stockings, down at her knees
Caught on a sassafras sprout.
She tripped and fell - got up, and then
In obvious disgust,
Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,
And faded in the dust.
Of course we all desired to know
What made the gals all do
The things they did, and then we found
The whittling owner knew.
A speaking system he'd devised
To make the thing complete,
He tied a speaker on the wall
Beneath the toilet seat.
He'd wait until the gals got set
And then the devilish tike,
Would stop his whittling long enough,
To speak into the mike.
And as she sat, a voice below
Struck terror, fright and fear,
"Will you please use the other hole,
We're painting under here !"
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
I've doodled and drawn till my skin's
Smudged grey from graphite,
I've erased and erased till shavings
Covered my floor like a rug,
I've drawn and re-drawn till I think
maybe... maybe it's good enough,
Then I change it some more,
Shade a part again,
Stain my skin some more,
Re-trace lines again...
And I think this time it's just about right,
Not quite, but it's alright,
So I pick up my pencil and
Sign it
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
C'mon! Spank me like the naughty little girl I am!
**** ME! **** ME! Stop being a man!
See this? Right here? My tight little hole?
Put it right there, baby! Homosexuality makes you whole!
Put this on your tongue, this seed of pomegranate.
Have a little fun! Let loose your granite!
Ice shavings and ice cream, my sweet little angel,
Come closer, come closer, let me study your angels,
Put your **** in my mouth. I'll **** you off.
*** in my mouth, and let yourself loft.
I'm not one for chains and whips,
But I'm more than up for shafts and tips!
*********** sliding in; so sweet;
Pound me harder with your big, strong meat.
The good'ol in-out in-out ~ The rhythm of life.
The dullness of cream ~ the glint of a knife.
Petrifying pangs of pleasure; cross a prostate ~ pouring,
Sweetly like ~honey~suckle~ Alluring
Breathe, my darling, like music, like a breeze.
Like the blood in my ears; like the wind in the trees.
In the closet, we are allowed but seven minutes.
But that is not enough! By the time its up, I won't be finished.
So for now, my darling, put your lips on my cheek.
And allow me one, little, innocent peak.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
dragon’s flames
rubber bands and blank paper sheets
a pair of ***** red sneakers
black and white keys
thick, old books
crumpled paper
a box of paints
pencil shavings
shades of gray
stacks of cds
dog-eared magazines
ancient stuffed toys
newspapers from two months ago
ninja gear and beyblades
a box of keychains
picture-plastered walls
last week’s jeans
yesterday’s jacket
ballpens with no ink
worn out satin slippers
an overused waveboard
loose change and
illustration boards
all found in
my room
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 3:56 AM UTC
<•>
For A:
The Pleasure of Infection
10:53 pm
our all about
is to be the whittler of our personage,
to both hold the knife with care,
but with risky, reckless artistry,
as we shape of what raw materials we are possessed,
into our own reshaped, reformed
most prized bejeweled possession
never mind the shavings and cutaways fallen,
they are fast away, castaway choices made and cannot be retrieved,
for when we whittle, whether our shape desired
which may be prior envisioned or a vision
from the discovery of performing,
they matter no more,
let them go, in their absence too,
they are part and a whit of you,
but not of you, no longer
our commonality in this: everything,
in everything else, so little
but your honesty and crafted, almost dishonesty both ring true,
and infect us with pleasure of recalling
when we
being cut designed and preparing our statue for
an unveiling, but with no date yet set,
and the loveliness of our mistakes,
were precious do-over opportunities
seek out the infection, the infection of discovery,
the risk of pleasure exposed and
your poetry may be either
the antibiotics
when the result is red and unpleasant,
or a celebration,
an invitation to us to be a
semi-silent beholder of your artistry
infections heal after pain and discoloration
but new skin always forms,
but at a different pace for each of us
I see the faces in my carpet nodding agreement,
"always new skin"
oh boy. time to go to bed
go seek out the pleasure of infection,
sadly, happily, it is the only way
good night
from an old man who dreams and schemes of
new skin nightly
but never mind me,
my piece long ago writ
and in need of just a tweak here and there,
call it one too many close shavings,
his poem's treasure trove,
a list
of life's minor irritations
and major lifts
<•>
11:16pm
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
t'is a seasonal custom of us,
**(you did notice that us
is the centerpiece of c-us-tom?)**
that in December, not November
when turkey precedes...
I take my slip of a gal
for a big bowl of pasta
and white truffles from France.
the eyetalian waiter knows
he made the sale when her eyes,
crinkle wrinkle when I ask,
upon which pasta
does the ristorante serve the
white truffles from France?
fettuccine, naturalmente!
in ritual grandiose,
the mushroom grated before our eyes,
shavings and specks scattered and disbursed,
part one of the us in c-us-tom done.
me, I grew up lower middle cheap,
Ronzoni rigatoni and Heinz Ketchup,
not just good enough, but a treat,
and I did not from truffle oil eat
nor speak.
two thirds of the way,
part two, I say, hey!
you know you don't have to eat the whole thing.
with eyes adoring,
she fesses up her tiny tummy was full
about half way through.
but she knows
me, I grew up lower middle cheap,
hate to waste the money,
that comes so hard.
part two is the part of the c-us-tom
she forgets about, but the part that
she really loves me for,
so who cares how much truffles cost,
as far her eyes are concerned,
they crinkle wrinkle at the taste,
of my remembering part two.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
Perish the thought that coats
Our tongues with hard harsh words
Inchoate reaching beyond grasp
Scantly strum our plush stairs
Scaling arpeggios
To soft crescendo as hands clasp
Gently brush angel hairs
Like magnet and shavings
Draw forged iron from gorgeous shrouds
Cherish the touch that floats
Like snowflakes whispering
In hushed descent from secret clouds
I will hold you in my mind
I will hold you in my arms
I will hold you in my time
You will hold me with your charms
I will take care of your memory
You will take care of my heart
I will keep you in my thoughts
Whether together or apart
Saintly calm amid storms
Whose roil-released crystals
On sprinkled tongues and cheeks alight
Enlace the fringe that frilled
Our sheer contours' luster
Emerging from dark thunder bright
Embrace the mists that build
Like cotton enfolding
Cumulative nimble and fond
Faintly kiss dermal forms
Like ghost lovers made flesh
Coaxed tumescent from far beyond
I will hold you in my mind
I will hold you in my arms
I will hold you in my time
You will hold me with your charms
I will take care of your memory
You will take care of my heart
I will keep you in my thoughts
Whether together or apart
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
Blue is the taste of fresh blueberries
Blue is the sound of an old lady telling a story
Blue is the feeling you get when sad
Blue is the smell of rain
Blue is the sight of a fire
Blue is the feeling of catching a firefly on your finger
Blue is the sight of an old tattoo
Blue is the feeling of water
Blue is the sight of lighting
Blue is the sound of thunder
Blue is the feeling you get when relaxed
Blue is the first sip of alcohol
Blue is the awkward silence between me and you
Blue is the feeling you get when you crash from a long day of work
Blue is the sound of a camera clicking
Blue is the touch of silk clothing
Blue is the color of the sea
Blue is the sight of an eye
Blue is the realization of life
Blue is the remembrance of a dream
Blue is the touch of sand
Blue is the sound of a roar
Blue is the feeling you get when sad
Blue is the calming sensation when relaxed
Blue is the color you get when you close your eyes and look in the sun
Blue is the look of an aged face
Blue is the taste of a sour lemon
Blue is the color of Cookie Monster
Blue is the sound of knuckles cracking
Blue is the feeling of writing
Blue is the sound of relief
Blue is the taste of really good food
Blue is the sound of marbles rolling on a wood floor
Blue is the smell of eraser shavings
Blue is the sight of home when you went away for awhile and
Blue is the time of day when I get to see you
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
Shavings of a canvas sky,
Slowly float and twirl by,
I lay back resting now,
my body heavy with its dread.
The torturous thoughts within my head.
For turns past I can not go back.
The lake of feelings brewing
turmoil and hurricane winds
That are gathering strength.
They will come and rage,
destroying this emotional cage,
in their fury, my emotions rip from me.
Shadows creep and slither in the wake of their destruction.
Mangled trees and dying wrath lay strewn about.
There is no path.
I stagger to the edge of my emotional cliff
And cast myself away.
Over the edge to the plummeting depths
from where I cant return.
The skies will clear and smile again.
The sun will kiss the dew.
I will wander the darkest deep
Lost and alone I'll wither and weep.
The blackness slowly starts to blue,
followed by a redish hue.
Then comes orange and yellow too.
Can I see a rainbow.....
Birds I hear them, waken I must
Dreaming of you,
I become dust!
© Crystal Erickson 4/24/08
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
The cold metal door
Squeeaaaks
And swings to the wall
In a thump of agony.
Lever-action. The bolt
Cliiiicks
To the hammer, before the
Brittle door-shavings
Rocket outwards in a
BANG!
Metal shatters like laminate.
In a way, its like
The spirit.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
They always said curiosity killed the cat.
Rat-ta-tat-tat.
Insignificant, curly shavings of thoughts slap the pink cerebral walls,
Porous with confusion and intellectual growth.
Experience.
Plump veins intricately woven between billowing realms of data
developing, destroying, at an electrical pace
Pulsing hollow answers like a motherless hooved heart ******* venom from Daddy’s fingertips
Menacing raindrops
On the tin roof over the shelter where too much dust collects
And Mr. Potato head and his family slowly disintegrate
On a day where the sky split
and tears dropped out
and all of those **** pillows
Just couldn’t catch them.
Wringing a grey water cloth
From the aquatic fabric we’ve always dreamed of consuming
Or sleeping under and over and in between.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
I want to write until tears fall from my eyes
and my pen runs dry and I draw silent and still
I want to write you into words I can take with me
I want to capture your being and form on paper
I want to write to soothe the cacophony inside me
I want to pull it out of me, pull me out of myself
in ribbons and strands until I fill a room
I will look at all that was in me, tugging on strings
that have left me empty. I want there to be nothing left.
Hollow out my insides leaving me with nothing but air in my spaces,
leave me with air and pencil shavings
Put all that is me out on display
Maybe then I will find calm.
I want to write about you,
I want to write until I know and understand you so well I confuse you with myself.
I will write and use up all the words in this language,
then make up new ones to describe exactly how 2,630 miles feels like when it weighs inside a heart,
how it feels to smile back at a photograph,
how I recognize voices through doors and it turns out to be a stranger.
I want to write about things gentle and soothing,
things that can act like a surrounding embrace to a heavy heart. I want to comfort myself.
I want language to be like my imaginary friend I whisper to behind a child's hands.
I want to hurt and I want to need, I want to evoke and I want to express.
I want to strike a chord and resonate for ages, a reverberation to last a century beneath the earth.
I want to not make sense and be misunderstood.
I want to cry silently in my pillow,
filled with emotions so human and so real that I know I Am Alive.
I want to find new words for your eyes, your voice, the curve of your spine.
People talk about making homes out of hearts and ribcages,
maybe I can do that too, live inside the marrow of your bones.
I want to fall into your deepest corners and find You,
then I want to surround you with a tender warmth that will calm and douse you
and you will know that you are Loved,
I want you to know that I will take care of you.
There will never be another who will do just This for you.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
euphoric and proud, we danced like the children we were supposed to be,
brushing pencil shavings off our desks like our mothers did to our hair.
forming daisy chains like dignified humans.
The Sun beams on our faces as if it was designed to highlight our youth.
*A punch in the gut, a knife drawn to the heart,
the inability to entangle a simple breath.
You lift the crease of your face up to seem gracious.
You lift your chest up to see if it will split, like the carcass of a rabbit that didn't quite decay underneath all that snow.
Your pulse softens like the tiny pieces of eraser entangled with faded words.
Your chest takes longer to inhale and only you and everyone else around you knows whats coming.*
Cracked lips was the worst that we ever suffered.
Your breath is still warm and it still comforts the animals that surround your mouth
Lucy is talking about how her father fed her pigs and then slaughtered them. I think to myself, this is strange behavior.
I know that your calloused fingertips caught on the cotton of her sleeves when you finally reached caducity. They told be that it was slow and pain free, and usually the mouth will taste of salt. That day was when the alloy of the sky grew to meet with the clouds, where salt loved to hide away. Your soon-to-be corpse was finally concluded, and I forgot to say goodbye.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
I am the stormy cloud
That shades the pretty sun
When you want to tan
I am the pencil shavings
That you blew off
Your desk
Because you didn't
Want me there
Anymore
I am all the rips
In your favorite
Jeans
I am your math book
Hibernating in
The bottom of your locker
You never take me
To class
Because you forget me
I am the petals
You pick off the
Sunflowers
While you chant
"She loves me,
She loves me not"
You'll never know if I do
You always pluck me off
And throw me on
The ground
I am the shadows
In your room at night
You get afraid
And turn the other
Way
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
You've become the vine
that creeps
up
the side
of my brick encased dwelling,
breaching every
crack
and
imperfection
you've stumbled across,
managed to conceal them,
and make them presentable.
You've overtaken an entire wall;
teal
and lavender
petals,
like crayon shavings,
scattered
against their dark background,
bringing with them
the color
my house
so desperately needed.
Now,
when friends and onlookers
pass by,
they see this great green and brick
marvel,
covered in leaves,
and petals,
and vines
that stretch from every awning,
down to the cement blocks
of the basement.
We have all the neighbors
whispering about
how your greens
compliment my reds
and how bright your flowers
bloom,
even on the grayest
of mornings,
so that everyone
is in envy
of what they see.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
do you believe poems possess the power to explain pure passionate pain?
i think thats what all writers hope to achieve.
showing someone their pain.
having someone read the words that they have collected on paper and organized into a structure that is somewhat sentence like and them by the last word, having a tear drop running down their face, much like how you would like to run away from those words on the paper.
having them look at you with that all too familiar glint in their eyes, and finally understanding just what the fibers of your being are composed of.
pain.
them understanding that your body wishes to die, but you are keeping yourself alive with the smallest pleasures, such as that smile you receive every day in 3rd period.
tell me, what would you do if they looked at you and said, 'goddamn it, im going to save you'
so until then, countless papers will be crumbled and thrown away, eraser shavings will cover my desk, and my eyes will go blurry from the tears begging to escape like my words do on the page.
but i will hold those too, until the day someone finally comes to clear my plate.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
an apparition in our grade one classroom door
obscured save for the halo around your head
. . . must've been the sunlight
playing with the curves of your curls
you said I wrote sentences
that would've made your grade threes weep . . .
and I was someone I didn't know existed before
someone who could write more than curved lines and straight lines
someone who played with words at break
while the other children ate protein-packed sandwiches
between chalkboard dust-clouds and sweeping up pencil shavings
I stayed in for athletics, looked through the classroom window,
searched the oak tree outside for a vision of the painted elf
I un-tacked from a perpetual race on the circular classroom weather board
see, I couldn't run with only one healthy kidney
when I just came out of hospital
where doctors cleaned their instruments in kidney-shaped dishes
my friend, June, still slept in the next hospital bed --
I hoped she wouldn't die the way Maria did --
while I read Jack and the Beanstalk
Mrs Louw asked how I had learnt to read English
I couldn't tell her -- it was something that just happened
the same way I discovered I despised steak and kidney pies
because I couldn't eat my own sickness
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC