My Con(dolences)/(fessions)Everyone says I’m a good kid, which is the polite way of saying I get good grades and only come to the office if I volunteer to make photocopies. It’s the polite way of saying I’m a borderline invisible person who hides away somewhere secrete during lunch and does homework.
They appreciate it, the teachers and principle, the disciplinarians who don’t know my name, couldn’t find me in a crowd. They appreciate me because they don’t know me, and they don’t know me because I’m a good kid.
I do hide away at lunch, but they turn the other way in regards to that. I have recorded medical issues, I need quiet, a certain eccentricity is to be expected in someone as smart as me. They have their excuses. And they trust me not to steal or break things, not to write on the stalls.
It’s sort of dumb, really. The trust on now basis except that I haven’t done anything before.
After all, how do they know? How do they known anything at all?
Bright Lights and TissuesThe awkward cap bites my hairline,
the heavy gown masks my shoulders.
The light beats down and it ends.
Ultimately, this is farewell,
We no longer write ‘see you soon!’
We write only ‘keep in touch’.
The question mark is implied.
The Beech Tree (Part Two of Two)Laura wasn’t the only one growing old. In the months that would follow, Joseph would grow weary faster. The autumn harvest, smaller then expected, took a toll out of him. The skin around his eyes became more and more creased, heavy like his folded, old shirts. His hands grew cracked, and the nails, which were continuously ragged, came in slower and slower.
Aaron was a few weeks shy of thirteen, growing into a man. His voice was starting to crack and waver like old leather, and his shoulders ached but grew broader.
The day of their autumn trip to town was approaching, and Joseph approached Aaron about it.
“Aaron, Mary and I need to go to town soon to buy the seed for our lands. We’re planning on leaving a week before your birthday. In the past, Mary and I have always gone and left you and Eliza with your mother…now, you’re not old enough to go alone, but you’ll be a man soon. You’ll need the experience and so I’d like you to come with me.
The Beech Tree (Part One of Two)Her mother was alone when she birthed her, alone in the house her father had built with his own two hands and the shoulders that were never quite even. Alone except for the dairy cow and it’s sire that lived between the houses and the two pigs. Her neighbors, the only house for miles, were in town to buy seed. They had been gone nearly a week, and she didn’t know when they’d return.
Her husband was dead, and she was alone.
Outside the window, a few dozen paces from the house, grew a beech tree. She stared at the trees as she labored, focusing her mind on the bare branches and not the human child born too early from her womb.
The child would be born before the neighbors returned. They were an older, childless couple who lived not a hundred feet away. When the wife came over, she found the woman hunched over the too-small baby, cleaning it in the tin wash bin with the dent and the chip near the rim.
“When was the birth?”
“A few hours ago,” the mo
The short jerks of my heartbeat
under the tight skin of my ribs,
Jerking awake at midnight,
pulling open and closed,
Narrow, long pole
calcium bones, neurons
sharp bursts of pain,
The baby cries at 2AM,
Self-fulfilling ProphecyIt is with the end of the day,
in the quiet sector of the night,
that dreams will come, and let them pay
the beauty of their broken flight.
More oft than not their wings do break,
leaden hearts of infernal clay
filled up with plans that long to take,
but empty of will, the light of day.
Dreams are often dead before their birth,
dreams are feeble, not goals to make.
They’re doomed before their find their worth.
The heart is too afraid to break.
I fear you but you fear me.
I give my dreams to open sky,
you crush them before they can fly.
I’ll end you lest you end me.
My soul and I cannot part.
Dreams are songbirds of the heart.
Dreams cannot live by fly,
we cannot live but hope.
Knitting wool ply by ply
thus we create eternal rope.
Earth empty of sky,
ocean without sea.
Who am I to cry?
It’s lost inside me.
Who am I to speak?
Silent lest I cry.
Nothing if not weak?
Cloudy without sky.
Birds sing songs that end.