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