Traffic Light

November 14, 2007 § Leave a comment

A broken camera—my dad straps around my neck.

A neighbor—Joe arrives, stealing joy by the door.

That afternoon I run to the playground. Frankie! Rain.

Friends come with peanuts. Cake, candles, 3 wishes:

A puppy, a bicycle, money … bubble gum lips-

what truth beholds in the mind, red wagon of a child.

Joe brings a Daschund, smiles … sorry, Sonya child.

At dinner, I drop under the table: turkey neck.

The very last smile … leaves for home—God kisses Joe’s lips.

No longer does our friend come with stories by our door.

Racing down the road—a yellow bike, 8 wishes:

I fly over my handlebars … bright blood on rocks. Rain.

Waking in the night, I tip-toe to mom and dad. Rain.

The devil chases my soul on cobble-stone. Run child.

Sleeping in the night, girls laugh, friends dream 13 wishes:

Throwing my body on an ant hill, boy bites my neck.

Where should I hide? Escaping up ten steps, Oma’s door.

One woman’s passion for youth playing, breathes from her lips…

Kissing for hours behind the barn, opening lips.

I try to outrun the storm, painting silhouettes. Rain.

Acrylics, oils, pencils, all colors swirl through a door.

My family across the ocean calls, sees no child.

Paths taken, travel one-way, spirits around my neck.

Five foot nine, growing in a lady, 20 wishes:

Puddles in the sand, deep ocean, 24 wishes:

Beautiful melody humming, more kisses on my lips.

Bodies in tune: Hands, fingers, soft-skin face, nose, mouth, neck.

Inhaling, exhaling, heat inside a room. Rest. Rain.

Escaping flames in the city, poetic child.

Noises distract my thoughts—incomplete. Come to my door.

Fleeing into the desert, I lock another door.

Sleep mother, my earth is barren, 28 wishes:

Come to my world—run beyond the stars. How lovely, child.

My heart knows only this song: Foreign, familiar lips.

Heart of innocense waits, 3 wishes in painting Rain.

Wishing years of green, red, yellow: Light around my neck.

The turns of bands, the function of time—touch dusty lips.

While waiting in the limits of the day, frame the Rain.

The last actual analysis: a soft line on my neck.

 

© Sonya Rose

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