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Literature Text
There is a wolverine in my backyard
and he is terrible.
It's almost a Saturday,
almost scraping the spring
from our molars and canines.
You are predictable
and terrible.
My mother comes home
tells me the hawks are
the things to photograph
and cry over and then leaves
because I grieve better in silence
and this is terrible.
I grab five jade eggs from the nest
too close to the ground. I throw
the first one up,
watch it hit the pavement like
an orchestra with a dead family member
or yellow songbirds at midnight and then
place the other four in a basket,
place them in a pool of neon blue.
and he is terrible.
It's almost a Saturday,
almost scraping the spring
from our molars and canines.
You are predictable
and terrible.
My mother comes home
tells me the hawks are
the things to photograph
and cry over and then leaves
because I grieve better in silence
and this is terrible.
I grab five jade eggs from the nest
too close to the ground. I throw
the first one up,
watch it hit the pavement like
an orchestra with a dead family member
or yellow songbirds at midnight and then
place the other four in a basket,
place them in a pool of neon blue.
Literature
My First and Last War Poem
When he came back from the war,
all he saw was shrapnel.
Not like the sort on the battlefield,
at home there were no bodies,
there was no thick sticky blood on his hand,
She stood at the beach,
brushed back a strand of hair
a jellyfish washed onto shore.
She knew only the dead were that clear
and it reminded her of the poisonings:
dead cats and dogs curled in balls along the sidewalk
after some jerk littered the doorsteps
steaks marinated in cyanide.
instead, he watched his family,
watched himself at the dinner
table as if he weren't even eating
swallowed the potatoes and wondered
"where is the metallic flavor;"
"where is th
Literature
On Disappointment
I.
Out on the porch, my mother sat in an Adirondack chair, smoking
her first cigarette in ten years. The air was hazy and discolored.
Her wedding ring spun on the table, gathering fallen ashes.
I was on the floor, knees tucked up under my chin, poking sticks
down the cracks. She spoke of lies and imagined bliss.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed.
I listened as my mother explained the complexity of love.
II.
Last night he drove just over the state border. I sat in the car,
feet up on the dashboard, singing with the radio. He looked at me
like he had a secret. He was the sage and I was the fool.
So there we were, lying
Literature
Strangers In The Night
The conifers played the piano the night you died.
On reflection, because of what happened, I expected there to be rain and stricken bolts of lightening. A perfect storm for an imperfect night.
In reality, the sun set in a perfect ball of glowing embers. There was no need for fire, catastrophe would occur that night in many other ways.
Our paths had never crossed before. Or if they had, we never knew it. I hadn't heard your voice, and I didn't know your name. Your voice and your name would never combine to enlighten me that night, nor ever again. The most important moment of your life, and possibly the most memorable of mine tugged us rough
Suggested Collections
"of carrides and the way i sleep best that way"
nopenope,
real scared of losing teeth. real scared,
like no money, no balls, no reeling bitchslaps,
like WHERE'S THE DYNAMITE IN SCARED.
like WHERE'S THE POETRY WHEN YOU REALLY NEED IT.
nopenope,
real scared of losing teeth. real scared,
like no money, no balls, no reeling bitchslaps,
like WHERE'S THE DYNAMITE IN SCARED.
like WHERE'S THE POETRY WHEN YOU REALLY NEED IT.
© 2009 - 2024 Aadea
Comments26
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i love this! couldnt really explain why though...