I never knew her name.

A child among braying whores laughing loudly at the bar.

I remember she always wore

A big red rose in her hair.

I heard many different stories on how

She came to entertain

Or at least make the brothel the least bit more legitimate.

However it happened - it happened

And I made my routine

With a little leftover after payday

To sit in the corner and listen to her play.

A blue painted violin became one

With her shoulder over a red, rustling silk dress.

It was blurry as empty glasses crowded

My table and the lingering decision to fall into her arms,

Who was currently wrapping her fingers in the 

Dock worker’s thick hair.

Still she stood in the dim light,

Playing badly the same song over and over.

Her eyes flickering, even though they were shut -

I danced in my seat, almost over the side.

Figures and colors of others drinking

And carousing shifted in front of her.

Dreams from last night haunted me -

It got hot as I decided that I would take her

With the sad money left crumpled in sweat

In my pocket. 

As I found that comfort I thought of her,

The music and a release I allowed myself

Before drunkenly staggering two blocks down

And passing out on my bedroom floor. 

Use an inanimate object as a personification of a social issue; feel free to use inspirations from historical revolutions or mdoern day issues of controversy.

The Bridge at Stillwell

The Bridge at Stillwell jutts out of the horizon on the back of a freight train.

Rust dances down metallic sides.

A road carving underneath it,

Is peppered with orange corns.

A sad, pre-spring grass curves

Where man has let it grow.

It is here that a trail of good people

Crouch down on their hands and knees.

It is the first landmark they’ll remember in the unfamiliar,

Undiscovered world ahead of them.

Soon it will blend in with the blurry commute across town.

As the houses lose fences,

Flowers and paint.

Last a horrifically lighted factory spouting pillars of gas.

It won’t be bad.

After all, they can leave when it’s over.

They park their cars on a thin road,

As though the houses around them

Won’t need the space.

And with smiling faces enter the club.

They speak with children who desperately distract

Themselves from homework, they play games,

And eat tangerines.

It is only after the kids are picked up,

That the good people blot everything past,

That rickety, soulful bridge.

Until they remember it

Exists without them.

I was no more than three

When I learned to hate.

I spat out bananas, green beans and Brussel

Sprouts. I banged my rattle

When the room was too hot, when the

Tall man came to visit or when the music

Stopped. I cried, I wailed

Tore at my collar when the Tall Man

Made my mama holler.

I was no more than seven

When I learned to hate everything.

I rolled my eyes in church, school, at my mama.

I cursed the Tall Man, The Fat Man, and the Yellow

One too, that came slithering out of the shadows

To sink their claws into me.

Potholes

It started small.

Or I thought so,

This is how everything does.

The annoying

Swerve of your car,

If you weren’t looking

It ate your wheel

And left you with angry thump.

But as the ice refroze and thawed

The commute became unbearable

It began.

It got bigger and bigger

And if you stopped to see

Got low on your hands on your knees

It’d be blue in the middle.

Bright blue.

And the next time, bigger

It’d be green, the purple, 

The sinner

Than gold until the tips of a finger

Reached out to the sky

Until the potholes gurgled with gravel

And out from the hole they surged

With metal faces, terrific smiles

And singing a song,

That burdened the night and the

Noon long

It grew louder and louder as

More of them shout out,

As more of them slunk into our shadows,

We began to wither.

The tyranny, the exhausted slither

The song seeped into our skin,

Into our hearts.

Into our thoughts

Until all we wanted, 

All we were hungry for 

Was rest.

Until we dragged ourselves

Shaking and sore

And crawled back

Into the gold, toes first

Into the world underneath the asphalt,

Into the world they came from.

It’s not something I remember all the way,

Or I remember easily, 

I know there was an old wooden cross,

Planted in the sand,

And the trees crowded around it

Until the sun set,

And shown through the trembling leaves,

And casting the shadow along

The benches where we sat.

I know after our stuffy, nine-hour long car drive

That I ran across the coloring sand

In my boxy, mint green dress.

And I tugged it up just enough so the hem

Didn’t get wet,

But the waves would leave bubbles between my toes.

I know I made a candle by dipping a long string into pots,

Of colored wax.

I was so excited by the rings of color at the end,

The orange, purple and pink,

That I kept dipping until,

The base was as big as my fist.

This didn’t make the craft lady happy,

Who scolded me more than once.

But I knew I was right,

Because my candle didn’t fall apart,

Like she said it would.

I know I wanted it so badly;

An eraser purple necklace from the gift shop,

My mom caved in and got it for me.

I know that it broke,

Two days later.

I know we played mancala

Outside of a cabin full of dead animals,

Bones and branches.

It was carved into the table

And we used rocks and acorns

As pieces.

I know there was a famous ice cream store

We passed before we came to camp.

It was called Blue Moon,

With a crescent

Flashing neon onto the cars as they passed.

I remember giddily peering through the clear plastic

Onto the tubs of fanciful flavors

I could choose from.

With all the bravery and excitement I could muster,

I picked Blue Moon.

I know we sat outside,

On the sticky, faux-stone benches

Under an umbrella impossible to open.

I know we entered a sand castle contest, 

And it was my job to gather driftwood and feathers

To make our Garden of Eden look real.

I know we sang silly prayers in the big,

Stained café before we got the chance to

Eat until we were full, and sip hot cocoa,

In the middle of summer.

I know one day while I was swimming,

I pooped in my swimsuit,

And without a towel

I waddled the sandy sidewalks

And creaking bridges

To our cabin where Dad was snoring on the couch.

I remember telling him I made a mess

But nothing afterward.

I remember Grandma

Giving my favorite Kitty

In her cabin after we played with puzzles.

Later, I’ll never know how much,

My aunts, Mom and sisters were playing Bingo

With me in the café.

I won, and out of the crate of prizes,

I picked another Kitty

Just like the one Grandma gave me,

Jojo won, 

And got a Kitty with orange and yellow

Stripes.

But after the game ended,

My sister Hannah didn’t win,

And with one sister with two cats,

And one with none,

My mother made me decide

Which one to give up.

Both were black and gray

And both were practically the same,

Except, one was far cuter than the other.

A moral dilemma burgeoned in my

Seven-Year-old mind -

Do I give her the cute one?

Or the ugly one?

I’d appreciate

Kitty, the cute one more – 

I let Hannah have the ugly one.

I know I used the individual

Coffee creamers as milkshakes

For my Kitty.

They kept them in a basket next to the

Coffee machine in the café.

Where kids found silly smiles

In drinking hot cocoa in the middle of summer.

I don’t know why

We can’t go back.

The way Mom and Dad explained it

Had to go with the owner molesting someone?

Or gambling the land away?

I choose to remember the pretty things;

The daddy-long-legs, the inchworms, the woodpecker

Under the bridge.

The red, rusty spigot we fruitlessly tried to spray

Off the sand sticking to our feet.

The hot metal canoe I sat in

As my parents paddled to the picnic.

The chance to sit under that tall cross and

Write while the pastor rambled on about on.

I don’t remember anything else,

Maybe someday.

Scary because it was hissing, blowing smoke.

Scary because the fluorescent light streaked it peach.

Furry because he was convinced it was a monster.

Furry because it wanted him to choke.

To chew black, charred crumbs

To hock breakfast as a brittle imposter.

She brought it home in a noisy, blue bag.

Plugged it in next to a bunch of bananas.

He could see it from the chair,

His paws clicking, scooting it towards the cabinet.

She’d ripped open a bread bag.

Toss in two slices without care,

Turning her back on it.

He knew, rubbing his head up against her leg.

But she pushed him away.

His tongue curled the air,

His tail wagging.

His eyes flashed at the scary, fur toaster.

The black, cool coaster

Skating through her lives...

It didn’t care. It buzzed too hot.

It never dared. It never got caught.

Its wire wound willfully up to the window,

Its gleam glowed gleefully in the gloom.

And each ding, sprang, burned bread up to the ceiling.

Each dig dragged druggery up to the drapes.

Each crumb cooling against the catch

Til she came to consume it on the cobblestone commute.

He however, was left alone with it.

He took his walk

By the sliding door, the yard and the stairs.

He took his walk until it drawed him back to it.

The cold orange tile breathing under the pads on his feet,

The sun sliding through slots and slits

Of sideways blinds.

Until one by one, the cabinets swung open,

One by one the door slammed shut.

One by one the oranges jumped off the counter,

One by one the plates shattered;

This he defended.

He growled, gnashed his teeth.

Howled and let the hate seethe.

It swung, corner by corner until he cowered underneath it.

It hovered, yanked its cord out of the plug.

A blue spark cascading down

The pool of milk coasting across the floor.

If it had a mouth, it would smile.

If it had a laugh, It would have already done so,

If it were weak it would have fallen to the tile.

There in the draft shooting through the window,

The scary toaster shout out its fur.

It was long, scraping, disturbing the milk.

It was ghostly white and green.

It was clumped, greasy and obscene.

He barred his teeth and hid the squeal in his eyes.

He moved to scratch, hoping for paradise, but as soon as he touched

It a bloom of blue rippled through the kitchenette.

It burgeoned and billowed and blossomed, I’ll bet,

Skating, skittering and scalloping so,

Fill everything and the cabinets glowed,

Till the dishes and oranges were reset

Till the milk was soaked up with sweat and regret

Till the tile glistened and the cat clock listened to its

Tock each time.

As he felt the blue envelop, each strand of hair and

Joint developed into curling up on the woven mat.

The toaster lay neatly on the floor, wires crossed,

Fused – unfused – powerless.

And that was that.

Had I asked too much?

Had I clung to the love, I never thought I

Deserved...

Does he feel the emptiness in the center of his

Heart, the kick in the gut,

The wandering reminder of what we had

I cannot look, I cannot blink, I cannot laugh

I cannot sleep

Without the haunting form circling around me

Holding me tight.

I dream of moonlight, silver fishes

And speaking to you

I imagine gnomes, fairies

And loving you one last time.

Her father stood in the cool light from the window,

Water running, his hands covered in suds.

She spoke loud and he peered over his shoulder,

It was nap-time but there was something

Sitting on the counter, calling her.

Eventually she raced out, holding two in her

Hands in delight.

Her heart pounded as she raced into her room.

Footsteps followed,

They were going to check on her.

She dove and crushed

The two perfect Oreos beneath the dollhouse.

The door creaked open and the blankets swallowed her

Whole.

When the door shut she snuck up

Her eyes dancing at the cookies squashed into the

Carpet. 

She peeled what she could off the

Floor, chewing softly before the cloudy day fell

And she slept.

Wherever you are, I hope you are happy. I hope you are among wise men, old souls and angels. I don’t know if you have thoughts of Earth, but there are people here who miss you.

I wanted to tell you about the first pun that I understood had followed the gradual moans after you said something like, ‘Oh you get your mail from a male? I get mine from a female.’ When everyone rolled their eyes, I remember seeing you as the wisest man in the world.

I remember winning Young Authors, having you visit and speak with the speaker. I remember feeling proud to be in a room with so many writers. I remember you nagging me about not sharing what I was writing; teasing me for keeping my romantic novels to myself.

I remember being jealous of my brother who was invited to play chess instead of me. 

I remember not knowing you, talking to you when I had to and not because I wanted to. I remember rudely asking for the remote when Uncle Gene gave us the first season of ‘Lost in Space’ for Christmas.

I remember watching you fall into the embrace of your recliner, the eternal coffee-stained mug resting on the T.V. tray; I remember you typing behind the folding doors even when we invited you to play a game you chose not to, I remember the impeding invasion of polar ice worms, I remember you drying your socks on the space heater. I remember never being able to wake up eartly and get coffee with you and Phil.

I cherish two times with you the most; when I said goodbye and told you that I couldn’t express how much I loved you, and you replied softly, ‘I know’. And last summer when you critiqued and challenged me to write a story about the statue.

I wish I had played more chess with you. I wish I had shown you more of my writing. I wish you would be here to see my first book published, to see me going to the University of Iowa. I wish I had spent more time in your den. I hope someday to have found the peace and confidence you had in the existence of God and our life here.

To feel no resentment that my time is up too.

How much you’ve inspired me; from the plastic sheep that poops jellybeans, your den, your chair of farts and leather, your holey smoking jacket, to the experiences you’ve treasured, the perspectives you’ve sought after, the knowledge that you know nothing.

I hope that you will understand why I took so many books from your den. I hope it isn’t seen as greed but my attempt to discover the stories you found important to keep your legacy to anyone who has read your books. 

I will miss you, I hope only to make you proud and bring more and more people to appreciate your work.

Love,

Abigail Sire

It passed before me in a terrifying light

It seeped to the cold of my bones

I faced the pain on a summer’s eve

I faced death alone.

I stood by myself, looking down

At the body running red on the ground.

I didn’t shout, shiver or cry

My heart was muted, subdued with a sigh

When it passed through.

I suppose I did what anyone would do

My quiet footsteps searching for the truth.

I found him looking down a bottle of scotch,

In the damp pub by the docks.

I cannot say I didn’t want to kill him

Right then and there,

But there was this hollow feeling,

Shading purples and blues, that stole my care,

I took the seat across from him at a table,

And watched the uneventful night go by.

His face was long and red

His eyes blurred with drink,

His leg shook uncontrollably,

His thoughts unable to think.

Every time I looked down at my hands;

He’d left me for dead.

I had no time to question the cruel fate dealt me,

I only reveled in the revenge sketched

On my raised eyebrow,

And fell from my lips.

He sat like a nervous, quiet man;

Nothing as he was before,

But there was no arrow, no sign,

That screamed he was the murderer.

I had to stay,

I told myself,

Glaring into his eye,

He had to live with it,

To suffer just as I.

As the moon etched its way across the dark,

As the loons sang out with the lark, 

I could no longer remember my life.

Why we’d fought in the first lace, our strife.

Looking down I was vanishing,

Limb by limb,

But I wouldn’t let him get away with it.

As she stumbled home,

His hand clenching a bottle

I chased him down the street

Pushing him down where the two roads meet.

And for one, terrifying moment

He saw me,

Out-lined in blue,

The marker of a time holding a dark untruth,

He would never forget,

The look of death,

Of vengeance in my eye.

Wouldn’t you be scared

If on your way, 

You met

Your own ghost?