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Literature Text
The Glow
The fluorescent ceiling lights are always glowing
in the afternoon, when sunbeams stream
from a window above the sink
where dead basil rests.
Mom thinks she'll save some money by leaving
the lights on. She enters from the garage
with a package of frozen peas
and microwaves them.
Then she waits in the space of the microwave's golden glow.
The fluorescent ceiling lights are always glowing
in the afternoon, when sunbeams stream
from a window above the sink
where dead basil rests.
Mom thinks she'll save some money by leaving
the lights on. She enters from the garage
with a package of frozen peas
and microwaves them.
Then she waits in the space of the microwave's golden glow.
Literature
Progesterone.
you should ask,
fittingly,
if one could die from bruises
or pressure, sub-
marine and ready to tip
like
an ancient bell-curve.
naseous, I am full
of textbooks, upper-layers of
disgust and
seizures.
but you'll come down south
with me, after our bones
ache and stretch and I
told them, I did, that
all I needed was comfort,
yours --
at night, and I don't
care about doors.
please, please let your
optimism be
true.
Literature
Perfect Contrition
In a proper Catholic church, everything echoes. Any sound uttered within the building bounces of the floor and the walls and the high, vaulted ceilings, so much so that I imagine that they could easily reach the ears of God himself. It's a rather poetic thought, the voices of mere mortals ringing towards Heaven with the help of good acoustics, but that thought's tempered by the fact that it includes every single noise: the coughs of emphysemic old men, the rustling of an impatient young girl's dress, and the taps of even the softest rubber-soled sneakers are no exception. On rainy days like this one, those shoes tend to squeak, which probably
Literature
The Farmers Son
We sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridges
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,
and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm
and I believed that part,
and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever
Suggested Collections
This is a piece of poetry done for my creative writing class a couple of semesters ago.
© 2009 - 2024 kajigoddess
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