Motherless
I have forgotten the way you used to talk,
tenderly and excitedly,
as if you were utterly engrossed in my teenage babbling,
as I lay on your bed and watched you quilt,
with a Turner Classic movie playing in the background.
I can’t recall the feel of your skin,
soft and weathered,
against mine,
as we embraced,
and you whispered secrets in my ear.
I have forgotten the cackle in your laugh,
that always filled in the spaces at parties,
and was greeted with laughter in turn,
by everyone near.
I don’t remember how you spent your days,
while we were at school,
and you were alone in our big, empty house,
because I never asked you.
I have forgotten the way you used to defend us
like we were your dearest and most beautiful possessions,
when anyone ever tried to hurt us.
I don’t remember the way your silver hair
shimmered in the sunlight,
gently brushed and curled by your careful hands,
or the smell of your mauve lipstick on Sundays.
I wish I could remember what you loved so much
about the gospel you taught us,
or the way you prepared copious lessons for ten years
to teach to teenagers who weren’t even awake to hear them.
I have forgotten the way you used to love me,
as no one else could.
I have forgotten what you saw in me
when your eyes lit up as they pierced mine,
and I knew you saw who I really was.
Ostia Antica
I’ll never forget your frescoed walls
or broken children,
crumbling under an ancient Italian sun,
as I meandered with gelato swimming on my tongue,
through your gardens and homes.
I had never seen so much brokenness.
It made me sad.
It made me relieved.
Relieved to know that I can be broken too,
but also beautiful.
I crumble.
I rust.
I topple.
Maybe someday, people will travel a long way to look at me
too.
Your empty rooms and shaded corridors
were sacked by pirates,
and burned by your enemies.
You were once the great harbor city of Rome.
Now you are a memory people pay 6.5 euro to look at.
I'm actually embarrassed because this is totally unfinished, and in fact, I was still finishing it when they called me up to the stage first. I was mad I went first. Stay tuned for next week. This is about the only cool thing going on in my life right now, and consequently, the focus of my blog. Oh, and next week's challenge is "the day after Valentine's." Consequently, the next round takes place on the day after Valentine's. If anyone has any brilliant ideas, let me know.
iPod Café
lights hanging from strings above each table.
as I enter and find a seat at the bar.
Buddy Holly and Samuel Beam are talking over coffee—the coolest cats there,
while Paul Simon and the Fleet Foxes discuss politics.
John Lennon and Taylor Swift nod quaintly at each other, but don’t say much.
John is too busy catching up with Pauly and the boys.
Bob Dylan and Bob Marley are cookin up some sweet jams in the back over a bit of cannabis
while The Temptations lounge with Miles Davis, laughing about the good old days.
Mac Wilberg looks slightly uncomfortable talking to Michael Jackson
and Miley Cyrus seems to hate everyone.
I knew I shouldn’t have invited her.
Bon Iver is on the small, spotlit stage,
singing my favorite song: “Re: Stacks,”
and as I cry, Chris Martin puts his arm around me and smiles.
They’re all there,
mingling into my consciousness
sipping cokes and lattes and dreaming about better times.
And just now, I think the world is ok,
as I sit in my iPod café.
