You left your mark like a prehistoric cave drawing. Unseen, undiscovered, permanent. A message understood only by the one who created it. You created a masterpiece. Beaten, bruised, bleeding, inanimate. To you. Leaving nothing to remember you by but a stain, faded, never gone. Violence the medium that stenciled you onto me so cruelly. Memories inaccessible but my body, like a cave wall, will never forget. *** Amy Menkhus is a
I chose the third wave of the set, gliding over water so aqua cool that every cut, bruise, and scar along the way faded into something I never was but am forever becoming. That night, gazing at the sea, I dribbled blood red wine down my shirt. It glowed like a birthmark in the fading sunlight, crystallizing focus in a quieter land, and the lapping waves told me that this
Under the nervous street light The cat crosses over stealthily Pausing at the edge Of the darker side. One eye flashes And it’s gone Into the margins. Black impregnates black The seed of a dream Behind the slumbering houses. I flutter through empty space A little man with little wings And a mouse’s tail. Suddenly I feel a knife In the back of my neck. I reel, collapse, plummet Drowning
That thou punished me and made me hate thee is true. But I promised to be wise thereafter and seek thy grace. Why didst thou forsake me for my faults when I merely mimicked thy heckling tribe? I loved thee when thou strok’st me and taught me the charms of thy art. But now that I am subject to none, my torment is solitude. Prithee, magician, return to these sands!
I’m so thankful for dryer sheets, For midnight sleets that keep me Inside when I’d rather be under the stars Puffing a Marlboro. I make late night calls to Mom, When she or I finally become so tired We begin slurring our slurs, And, listening, my father says, “It sure ain’t no game for Simple folk, thats for sure,” And I bring forth laughter Because I know he has never
This is the seventh in a series of columns that feature a much-loved poem, and a second poem that speaks to, or resonates with, the first poem. This week’s poem is “Requiem,” written by Robert Louis Stevenson. This poem was carved into Stevenson’s gravestone. The line that attracted me was “Glad did I live and gladly die.” Some critics consider this a bold lie, but I prefer to think of
