Mother – A poem.

What is love

Five years old and making
macaroni and cheese for herself
and her stuffed bear, Molly.
She sits alone in the middle—
laminate spirals of printed cedar
fracture around her,
like a crater from her depression.
A forkful goes to her mouth,
and as she chews, she lifts the fork
to Molly’s single-stitched mouth.

Baby don’t hurt me

The surrounding furniture
was nice once. Cared for and clean.
But now it’s worn—
the leather couch scuffed and blurry,
distorting her reflection.

A reflection that watches
as she eats and feeds her bear—
cartoon bears dancing on the TV,
speaking of picnics and forests,
but the image is fuzzy with dust.

Don’t hurt me no more—

Dinner done, and dishes clean,
she takes Molly to bed, taking care
to read a pleasant bedtime story
and tucks the tired bear in. Her dry lips
catch on the ratted fur for a goodnight kiss.

She closes her eyes and pretends
to sleep when the front door opens.
Footsteps stiletto across the laminate,
and she turns her back
to the shadows underneath the door.

Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me no more.


Starfighter – A poem.

The telescope rests now,
its giant eye watching the stars.
The boy sleeps, his ceiling glows
with painted constellations.
Stars arrange themselves—
a story he refuses to read.
He finds a one-eyed dog, a unicorn that lost
its horn, a motherless boy.

When stars peek, like tiny
suns, he goes up to his room to watch.
His father’s voice quivers
through the carpet, punctuated
by clinking glass. He stares through
a telescope pretending
there are other worlds.

A constellation of tumbling stars,
like hair, framing blue eyes
that see how tough nights are.
When he screams
his father doesn’t come.
Sweated blankets cocoon him.
Starlight slips through the window,
almost kneels next to him,
and burns the terrors away.

His face eases into sleep.
The starlight fades, catches on
the photo of his mother,
and is gone.


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