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Literature Text
The street-level apartment,
abandoned from wear and tornado
last spring, tells us love stories
in graffiti inscriptions.
Close enough to the road
that it leans looming over it,
the complex slumps, unused,
except by an eight year old boy;
old enough to have been told not to
and young enough to not understand.
He has hands that stutter—
hesitate—
because he folds paper
like he seals envelopes:
with purpose.
He has a mind that isn't reluctant;
why wish upon a star
when the beings
that can grant wishes
are in the spaces
between constellations?
Together, his head and hands
craft paper cranes.
Between knotted levels of rope,
cranes spread layered wings
and bob, breath-like,
waiting.
He molds shapes
out of hangers,
nestling his dreams
into metal and numbered pages.
He has soul in his eyes
and heart in his palms;
why doubt the beauty of self
when he can craft it
from discarded treasures?
A sound heard from his right tightly
to loosely on his left: an injured bird
is cultivated on the curbside.
Its head is down, staying down;
its wing up, staying up.
But the bird breathes: down, up.
In the alley,
his hanging garden of paper birds
on knotted levels of rope
bob, breath-like,
anticipating.
Why make a thousandth crane
when he can save a real one?
Little bird,
feathers splint with tape
and a popsicle stick--
nestled tight with his dreams.
He stands on tiptoes,
reaching, reaching;
clips the fabric boat
to metal hook
and lets it slide.
And he spins
among the cranes below,
a garden waltzing to his beat,
thin wings fluttering above the street,
and he waits
for his bird to fly home.
Why put yourself out on a limb
for happiness
if there's no one to share the song with?
He doesn't doubt his happiness
out on the limb of an apartment balcony
because the chirp-trill of a nursed bird
is inexpensive to heal.
He catches rocks
instead of wishing stars
and collects them
on thick twine,
his heart scrawled--
a different kind of poetry--
across torn pages
because the beings
might not hear him,
but someone will.
His small hands clasp,
stutter against,
release bits of him
throughout the sky
because life has to be more
than dimming stars...
and the belief
that not everyone
is worth being saved.
abandoned from wear and tornado
last spring, tells us love stories
in graffiti inscriptions.
Close enough to the road
that it leans looming over it,
the complex slumps, unused,
except by an eight year old boy;
old enough to have been told not to
and young enough to not understand.
He has hands that stutter—
hesitate—
because he folds paper
like he seals envelopes:
with purpose.
He has a mind that isn't reluctant;
why wish upon a star
when the beings
that can grant wishes
are in the spaces
between constellations?
Together, his head and hands
craft paper cranes.
Between knotted levels of rope,
cranes spread layered wings
and bob, breath-like,
waiting.
He molds shapes
out of hangers,
nestling his dreams
into metal and numbered pages.
He has soul in his eyes
and heart in his palms;
why doubt the beauty of self
when he can craft it
from discarded treasures?
A sound heard from his right tightly
to loosely on his left: an injured bird
is cultivated on the curbside.
Its head is down, staying down;
its wing up, staying up.
But the bird breathes: down, up.
In the alley,
his hanging garden of paper birds
on knotted levels of rope
bob, breath-like,
anticipating.
Why make a thousandth crane
when he can save a real one?
Little bird,
feathers splint with tape
and a popsicle stick--
nestled tight with his dreams.
He stands on tiptoes,
reaching, reaching;
clips the fabric boat
to metal hook
and lets it slide.
And he spins
among the cranes below,
a garden waltzing to his beat,
thin wings fluttering above the street,
and he waits
for his bird to fly home.
Why put yourself out on a limb
for happiness
if there's no one to share the song with?
He doesn't doubt his happiness
out on the limb of an apartment balcony
because the chirp-trill of a nursed bird
is inexpensive to heal.
He catches rocks
instead of wishing stars
and collects them
on thick twine,
his heart scrawled--
a different kind of poetry--
across torn pages
because the beings
might not hear him,
but someone will.
His small hands clasp,
stutter against,
release bits of him
throughout the sky
because life has to be more
than dimming stars...
and the belief
that not everyone
is worth being saved.
Literature
sunshine shaking
morse code upon collarbones and
sun-bleached smiles. she
wasn't ready. she wasn't ready.
he had open arms like
the song about the london bridge;
chlorine baptized him a new
man. innocent, innocent,
what did you see
when you kissed her? the
pearls upon the waves, the
silence upon the shore. was it
quiet enough to hear
the break? thunderous blue, the
chasms of her eyes.
I was
Literature
Lydia
{i wrote this for the fifth-grader who told me once my hair looked like ramen noodles.}
1.
i felt bad that i had forgotten for awhile how much she believes that the universe needs to be
smaller
in order for the stars to be closer, even though
sometimes
she forgets how big she is.
2.
Lydia is like holding a butterfly, and she moves like a wish does
through a dandelion’s fur
when i first met her i felt inadequately colored
and when i first told her my name was Cady, she yelled at me for spelling it wrong.
Lydia used to be one of those gangly, weightless nine-year-olds, always spindly and stringy
against the onslaught of leg forests
Literature
Generous
There’s this pressure building
in my chest that I don’t know
what to do with so I cram mason
jars with cookies, craft mix
tapes full of Americana punk, leaf
through used bookstores, looking
for a taste you never savored, songs you never
heard, books you never read and maybe
I can give you that instead of my feelings.
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
A collaboration with the wonderful, talented, and kind Nichrysalis.
This poem is ENTIRELY based off THIS beautiful music video: Breathturn, by Hammock
Please go give the song and video a watch and a listen--they're both absolutely gorgeous.
Also, go show Nichrysalis some love!
Wishing CranesThe street-level apartment,
abandoned from wear and tornado
last spring, tells us love stories
in graffiti inscriptions.
Close enough to the road
that it leans looming over it,
the complex slumps, unused,
except by an eight year old boy;
old enough to have been told not to
and young enough to not understand.
He has hands that stutter—
hesitate—
because he folds paper
like he seals envelopes:
with purpose.
He has a mind that isn't reluctant;
why wish upon a star
when the beings
that can grant wishes
are in the spaces
between constellations?
Together, his head and hands
craft paper cranes.
Between knotted levels of rope,
cranes spread layered wings
and bob, breath-like,
waiting.
He molds shapes
out of hangers,
nestling his dreams
into metal and numbered pages.
He has soul in his eyes
and heart in his palms;
why doubt the beauty of self
when he can craft it
from discarded treasures?
A sound heard from his right tightly
to loosely on his left: an injured bird
is cultivated on t
June 20th, 2014
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