Freedom is found In knowledge sought Connections imagined – New dawning era of thought Yet none speaks wisely Who claim to know all Pushing forth their opinions As to not seem so small Compensation calculation For indiscretions of past Look instead to the future Nothing Can Last
11 December 2020
There’s a light in the forest Beyond the break in the trees Where water flows gently Among the rustle of leaves. Pardon the intrusion Where humans should not be I’ll return to the shadows– Darkened path no one sees
9 December 2020
I hold space in the darkness Where someday I pray There will be light
8 December 2020
“Dans Macabre–” you say With a permanent pearly grin “It takes your breath away.” As your long limbs sway Stripped of their flesh Now immortal as stone With your clattering bones: Restless soul with no home.
Thank you for taking the time to read my poetry today! These originally appeared on my Twitteraccount.
Content Warning: this piece discusses the death of a child and is based on a true story that took place almost a hundred years ago. For those wishing for a soundtrack while reading, I recommend this.
It rained that day in Bonaventure. The men in linen raincoats slicked with wet wax pried her blue and purple infant from her arms with kind eyes as they stood by the gravesite. He never cried. His eyes scrunched shut and mouth hung open to reveal white gums and a tiny receding purple tongue that never knew her breast. His little hands balled into stiff rigor mortis – the same little hands that once pressed through her skin to feel his parents’ palms. The wood and hammered metal wheelchair creaked beneath her in the gusting wisps of distant thunder carried on harried fat dollops of weather.
It was time to say goodbye.
Having never taken a breath of the sweet earthy air, she knew he only ever lived inside her. Her eyes hesitated on his blue lips. A different blue than the eyes she knew he must have beneath those unopened angelic lids. She imagined how if they had fluttered open she could have seen…
“Anna, it’s time to go.” The captain clasped a firm hand on her shoulder. “You have to say goodbye.” His body trembled, but his feet remained firm in the soggy ground.
Ever the polite grave diggers at Bonaventure – their patient spades waited for the captain’s call. To have her baby’s birth documented at all was a luxury. In the eyes of the state of Georgia and the city of Savannah, he never existed. At least Bonaventure gave her and her husband the dignity of recognizing the agony of her feverish labor after carrying her child for all those months; the right to mourn after knowing him all that time only to lose him before ever hearing his scream of life or giving him a name on paper.
In the distance, a bird flew into a patch of blue sky over the ocean on the blue-gold horizon beyond the mouth of the Wilmington River. Another drop of water hit her as she gazed over her child’s face once more. Her hand grazed the place on her stomach where she felt his final kick before the labor began – where she saw his little foot press through her skin. She let go – her tears hidden by the rain.
The men wrapped his little form in a thin damp cloth dusted with perfumed talc from a pouch on one of the digger’s belts. Smudging dirt on his forehead, the digger knelt and placed her unknown son as if asleep into the soft soil of the small pit. Beneath the morning clouds, the scene took on a light blue glowing hue. She closed her eyes and began to hum the lullaby she’d sung to him every night since she’d first felt his presence as the captain’s jerk of the chair indicated him turning away and processing along the ground. The exhaustion hit her again with a wave of nausea. Her baby boy gone forever as if he was never there at all.
In Bonaventure’s records they added:
1929 – Baby B— – Stillborn
If you want to read more, keep an eye out for future additional updates and excerpts from ‘Little Earthquakes In The Sea’.Liking, commenting, and sharing all helps me know which posts my readers prefer. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this today!
The young woman waded out into the icy snow melt of the Blackfoot River and prepared her cast. Just like a metronome. Just like her father showed her. The fly soared through the air and danced with the surface currents. A trout jumped, then snapped.
“Reel it in, Honey!” Her father hooted from the shore, with hands cupped over his mouth; a beer between his knees.
Her smile widened to mirror this prize trout as it drew closer in the water. “Toss me the net!”
Her father threw the net while leaning into the bag next to the cooler to grab their camera. “You know the rule! You need a picture with your first fish.”
The net snared the writhing tail as she unhooked the big trout, retrieving her fly. Her father beamed as she waded over to the shore, her thick rubber slickers folding against the water and her bending legs.
“Ready for some pictures?” Her father held up the camera. She grinned, forgetting what it meant to be a teenager caught having fun with your parents.
She picked the fish up, staring at its gills – drowning in the air; red on the inside. Just like her. She smirked. “How about I kiss it?”
“Your mother will love that! Go ahead!” Her father laughed and readied the camera. “Ready?”
She held the fish up and puckered her lips dramatically. “Set!” She attempted to shout through her shmooshed face.
“Go!” Her father returned and took the picture. But the picture her father reviewed was of his mortified daughter kissing a very naked young man with a bleeding cheek.
“What the hell?!” She screamed as the young man fell to the ground, coughing the remains of the Blackfoot River out.
“Get away from my daughter!” Her father shouted, but he didn’t need that instruction. Sooner than he’d said it, the young man was gone. Stepping over to his daughter, he clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry about your fish.”
His daughter shrugged. “It’s okay, Dad. There’re a lot of fish in this creek.”
I hope you enjoyed this short silly story dedicated to my dad for father’s day and our many father-daughter fishing trips. This is the product of a writing group I recently joined and have found is improving my creativity and writing skills drastically. The prompt was: rewrite a fairy tale based where you currently live. I am so grateful for Leslie, Susana, Miguelina, Glorya, and Emmie (I am terrified that I spelled someone’s name wrong, so I may come back and correct name spellings if I did). Being surrounded by powerful women is bringing out the best in me.