Over the last week, the storage unit that we have had for the last three and half years was finally emptied and brought to our new place. In this storage unit were my 17 boxes of books, all of my knick-knacks and keepsakes, and some old writing, among some much needed kitchen utensils and furniture.
While going through my boxes, I came across the 2013 edition of my community college literary magazine, where one of my poems was published. This marks the first time I was published by a magazine in even a semi-official capacity.
I decided to share this poem with you all, as I am still proud of it.
Reach
It's like windows hanging in the air midst rain and dirt the only silhouette an empty shadow of someone else's thoughts through the window pane I see nothing but the black and white of an analysis The stanzas spoke to me once now the voice is gone behind the dirt moldering on the glass or magnified by the raindrops splattered distorting the image with my own mirror. What I really want is the windows to shatter like porcelain flesh cracked egg shells letting out the yoke I'm going in crawling over the broken barriers perhaps cutting myself on the jagged edge of brevity, I'll bleed all over the floor! put some life into the place into that shuttered old house that I know is there behind the curtain. There I'll rummage through the closets and cupboards and sock drawers anything I like goes in the pockets of my Mudd jeans pretty soon I'll head to the kitchen make myself some tea Darjeeling and think to myself Why this cup? Why this color? What do they talk about around the table? How do they cook in such a small kitchen? Where the hell did that cat come from? I'll bring my tea into the living room make a fire in the fireplace cuddle into the nearest armchair with the cat and soak the house in. staring into the flames until my eyes reflect the light shimmering like a cat's in the dark shimmering with the knowledge and the desire; the sheer magnitude of the story of the house brimming over at the touch of ancient smoke and smell the burning and find myself staring at a window midst dirt and rain struggling with the feeling of just beyond my reach looking around at the numberless windows hanging in the air and I'll think My God, there are a lot of stories to be told.
Kendra- Thanks for sharing this. I particularly love "looking around at the numberless windows" for some reason. Something about it brings out a sharp visual. Hope you're well this week. Cheers, -Thalia