poem
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A poem where each line ends with a word made from the letters of the single word title A weight barely bearable of being a parentHeavier than pushing a pramHarder than standing betwixt the world and my teenLift, lift each day on repeatMy love is a tender tether mistaken for a trapAs what was my
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Held, beheld, belovedSquishy soft and warm in my fingersBrowsing the shelvesWith my hands and my eyesUntil I find the perfect skein Beheld, beloved, heldHours, days, weeksI carry my knitting with me alwaysStealing curls of time with my needles Beloved held beheldPicot edges frame your faceYour small arms reach outIn woolly sleeves to me Emptying drawers
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I don’t remember when I first saw herProbably in the hallwaysMaybe in the cafeteriaOne pretty girl amongst pretty girlsPretty much the sameI remember when she saw meIn the library, study hall, second period Her eyes a little too big for her elfin face threw wideA cloud sailed away from the sun; I burned from her
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A thin ribbon spooling out of the growing darknessWatching him from the corner of my eyeIn the passenger seat I’m afraid for himAfraid of everythingGlittering his eyes picking up the street lights Afraid if he’ll go to collegeAfraid if he doesn’tAfraid of his friends, his choices Rows trees speed past usI turn to speakAs the
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Sun faded sage coverBrushed velvet from fingers after bedtimeOpened under a pastel petal comforterLit by a flashlight and the promiseOf a walled garden blaringBellflower and lilac purpleMagenta primroses with saffron throatsAmong a hush of lamb’s ears like the edges of well-thumbed pages Resting on a crowded shelf in my flowered wallpapered bedroomin my dorm roomIn
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The mangled heir tucked away in the catacombsForgotten insane aunts stowed in atticsEvery family has its mysteries The outward facing dialPlacid and roundOrdered and ordinarySlivered into relateable hunks Yet behind the smooth panelthrashing and twisting, torn needed secretsCaught on the gears’ teeth Pendulum,anchor,wheels,escapementEach member with set rolesin repetitionmoving in rhythmic chaosMarking time
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Ode to a feckless phone without mercyIf only I could I’d fling your heftO, device of delight shining brightlyDragging my joy to its lowest depth When your role was to make me happyInstead you’ve rendered my plans bereftPixelated frozen true crime documentaryNo podcasts, no paranormal audiobooks, no nothing left Yet a skein of wool has
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It was never meant to go this farJust wanted to fly on the Whirl A GigTo scream ourselves hoarseAs the wind caught our secrets You held my hand on the Ghost TrainIt was never meant to go this farBabysitting money splurgedOn hot buttered corn and cotton candy mouthfuls Cherry ice warm lipsMissing that last busIt
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Curl into me, little oneI will keep you safeYour back to my chestYour hands in mineMy arms are the only cradle you’ve knownOur breaths mingle on Auntie’s sofa Tell you a storyIt’s too late for storiesWe have to move again maybeOkay a short oneThe one about the hedgehogWith blow bubble wings andBunny ears no bumblebee
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Electric air bristles with revulsionQuiet enough for a dropped pinThe world has outgrown sideshowsAt least our consciences like to pretend Truth be told we’re not very far from the freakshows we’ve only added a markup language spinPenny Dreadfuls have morphed into podcastsThat teach us it’s never a mannequin Late of Mary Lynch, an unassuming volume
circular staircase 