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Literature Text
I see it in her sinking eyes,
the silence of their gaze--a child
batting at the final thread
of life, nine for nine. Darker days
pass with worry tumbling deep
in its high-walled pit. I see it:
something that says this is the last,
when I touch the curve of her back,
the rise of spine, the uneven quiet
of her response while winter bulks
and burns with its oppression of frost.
I see it in my brother, the care
of each hand as it arches over bone.
There is hunger, but she does not eat--
only laps at a small drinking bowl--
and I tell him this is it, it is now:
but he insists as love does--wandering
dove in the dark cave that is death--
says all he needs to do is feed her.
But I see it at work flashing up
with his number that same day, his voice
quivering as tongue-tapped water;
and I knew he would rescind
our agreement: a leap into the dark
without the interference of barbiturates,
a vet's cold table, two gloved hands
that are more steel than hands. I see
it there, to give in like that: to forsake
a passing in warmth, in a lifelong home
with living hands, the hands that picked her
from a ragtag litter, chosen for her fur--
the taupe, the burnt umber, the chestnut brown--
the hands that cradle her now, I imagine,
after the needle slipped in proboscis-like.
I see it in his final text, his word-choice:
"Lara is dead." I see it
filtered through a lens of tearfulness
as I trek along a lonesome aisle. I see it
as a blanket-covered box outside
against the harsh freeze of midnight
where I knew she rested, where I dared not peek.
Instead, I risked sleep, listening to absence:
her weak, half-toned call
now just that morning's memory. I hear it, even:
early morning drudgery, my brother pouring
boiled water onto our backyard's secluded corner
to work in a shovel, where she'll end
a row of young evergreens. That night, I found him
at her grave, beautified with candles
and a mask of incense. Told me she died in his arms,
how he panicked when she gurgled and twitched
until he couldn't take it--gave the vet the go-ahead.
I see it in his breath as it swam
along the breathing smoke of incense, his admittance:
how he wished for her to just wake up.
the silence of their gaze--a child
batting at the final thread
of life, nine for nine. Darker days
pass with worry tumbling deep
in its high-walled pit. I see it:
something that says this is the last,
when I touch the curve of her back,
the rise of spine, the uneven quiet
of her response while winter bulks
and burns with its oppression of frost.
I see it in my brother, the care
of each hand as it arches over bone.
There is hunger, but she does not eat--
only laps at a small drinking bowl--
and I tell him this is it, it is now:
but he insists as love does--wandering
dove in the dark cave that is death--
says all he needs to do is feed her.
But I see it at work flashing up
with his number that same day, his voice
quivering as tongue-tapped water;
and I knew he would rescind
our agreement: a leap into the dark
without the interference of barbiturates,
a vet's cold table, two gloved hands
that are more steel than hands. I see
it there, to give in like that: to forsake
a passing in warmth, in a lifelong home
with living hands, the hands that picked her
from a ragtag litter, chosen for her fur--
the taupe, the burnt umber, the chestnut brown--
the hands that cradle her now, I imagine,
after the needle slipped in proboscis-like.
I see it in his final text, his word-choice:
"Lara is dead." I see it
filtered through a lens of tearfulness
as I trek along a lonesome aisle. I see it
as a blanket-covered box outside
against the harsh freeze of midnight
where I knew she rested, where I dared not peek.
Instead, I risked sleep, listening to absence:
her weak, half-toned call
now just that morning's memory. I hear it, even:
early morning drudgery, my brother pouring
boiled water onto our backyard's secluded corner
to work in a shovel, where she'll end
a row of young evergreens. That night, I found him
at her grave, beautified with candles
and a mask of incense. Told me she died in his arms,
how he panicked when she gurgled and twitched
until he couldn't take it--gave the vet the go-ahead.
I see it in his breath as it swam
along the breathing smoke of incense, his admittance:
how he wished for her to just wake up.
Literature
Paper-Thin Promises
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statu
Literature
Sacchariferous
for the Admiral
my dandelions speak of
the kitchen, brimming
with sun-streaked sugar
and mended-over smiles.
floured fingerprints cloud the sky,
but every broken egg is one more yellow flower.
in sweetgrass and flowers
i find white-leaf bandages for cracked shells. coils of
sky
fill the bowl to the brim-
the world is a clean smile
wrapped in sugar.
everything here is white and pale as sugar
gathered to mend your flowered
smile.
i wish you'd swallow always fields of
dandelions that brim
with every clean, clear sky.
i'll measure out the sky
in cups of sugar.
fogged upon the rim
of the flour bowl- your fingerprints in flowe
Literature
Seam Stress
The heaviness settled in like an anvil being dropped on me. I couldn't take the fog inside my head and the lead inside my heart anymore, so I sat in the sun to melt it away. I wanted to sear every surface until I couldn't feel anymore. What kind of life is that, though, to never feel anything? To never feel the joy of love; the way it wraps its arms around your heart and traces its fingertips along your veins? Even the pain of looking back at love's scattered memories is necessary to understand how beautiful the feeling once was; how lucky you were to have ever felt its lips press to your cheek, its breath collect in the hollow of your neck.
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Well, our cat of more than 20 years passed away at the beginning of this year. I was the one who picked her out and named her back when I was 7. Sometimes I forget that she's even gone when I walk around the house--it's a strange feeling.
© 2013 - 2024 fllnthblnk
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I've never been the one there as my pet was put down, but I've seen my four legged friends get hit by cars, threatened to be shot in their cage by police, and forced to give them away, threatened with euthanasia, sudden homelessness and a 10000 dollar fine, just because he was a pit bull. The second two were the same dog, actually. A beautiful, loving, playful cuddle bug of a red nosed pit bull named Earle. I'm sorry for your loss. Sometimes love can be very painful.