I write mom something in pencil.
It's on lines of a yellow legal pad.
It's nothing, except lacerations.
It's the five of us gathering. I write,
'We're clockwork at the round table.'
We eat supper and canned peas.
It's years later I walk into a mess hall.
It's a man playing ukulele for kids.
I look away from children on folding chairs.
We've never seen Hawaii's waters, Mom.
It's bread spread with butter, cut into
triangles. We say goodnight.
Lacerations isn't right. I know,
because it always comes to me.
It's more like pine needles.
Sweet and pungent. It warrants
pink paper swaddled in a manila
envelope. It's sealed with a kiss.
[for this prompt and #236]
This beautiful. You got me from your first line. There is so much poetry in life. We are moving pictures seeking paper to record it. Thank you so much for taking part in the prompt!
ReplyDeleteStationery is important. In our modern world, it's easy to lose sight of this.
ReplyDeletePine needles may be better than lacerations.
ReplyDeleteThis is such a beautifully realized poem. A post modern masterpiece which attempts to bridge the divide between brain and heart - what we know and what we feel. One of your best.. but that's how I feel about them all.
ReplyDeletebeautiful. Hinted at but not spelled out - words that allow us to imagine!
ReplyDeletestunningly elegant for the just below the surface razor sharpness - filled with longing, wonder at the "why not" - as well a smidgen of forgiveness that dances with the bittersweet as well.
ReplyDeletetruly a remarkable poem - the spaces between the lines and words speaks as boldly as the story itself