I learned to bury myself in exams and exhaustion, in pink highlighters and black thoughts, in study guides and late nights, in straight As and tangled headphones. I learned everything I was supposed to be, and everything I wasn’t; I learned that I could live my best life and still see pieces of my worst.
The moon burned red in the deep, dark pool. The stars gazed down in awe as the maid strode down the ancient path, her fate engraved by law.
By Eliana Duran As the old lady sits in her wooden porch chair, She sews together a blue teddy bear. For years she’s sat in the shade of the birch, Sewing a bear for each baby at church. There aren’t any now, but there’s never been a drought. There isn’t much time...
Sometimes poetry stumbles. I think you can tell because of the way this began—not quite poetic, more like strings of consciousness tangled together like Christmas lights, the only exception being that I don’t like Christmas lights.
Those long miles down old gray roads, roller coasters on the way to roller coasters, coast to coast, talking in codes, the leaking pipes, the broken toasters.
The forlorn girl looks up with a smile each time the maple leaves sway with the breeze, dancing like maidens of scarlet and gold for the girl at the window who watches the trees, seeking escape from a sorrowful world.
So it begins, the smell of freshly spread paint mixed with sweet-sticky perspiration. Tireless preparation. Scrub the stains, pack what remains, stack boxes in bedrooms, eat lunch (Oreos and applesauce) while sitting cross-legged on the floor, write up a laundry list of things to do and realize there isn’t yet a washer, make a conscious effort to avoid spilling on new carpet but do it anyway.
If I were to make a list of the best feelings I know, the ones that smell of safety and taste of tenderness and call me with loving lungs, I would write: being held in small, strong arms and knowing I am protected with the very lifeblood running through them.
I took life apart to see what made stars glow; I wove a web of silver truth, untangled row by row.
We face our beginning; with one wrong step, our end. Both ends tangle as we explore—we share the now and could be. Time blends.