Tag: writing
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Path, Two Figures
The older figure walks with a measured rhythm, as if the day has agreed to match his pace. The smaller figure beside him moves with a lighter cadence, testing the texture of the moment with each step. Their hands meet.simple contact.steady.uncomplicated. The path ahead is plain, a strip of gravel that offers direction without insisting…
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The Rise
(Inspired by, and to the tune of, The Day the Nazi Died by Chumbawamba) They said it couldn’t happen here,they said the threat had passed;that fascism was a relicin a history book at last. They told us we were safe now,that the danger had been slain,but the day we stopped believingwas the day it rose…
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The Ballad of the Vanishing Spine
They say the Capitol’s tremblinglike a fiddle in the rain,’cause the man in the big chair’s shoutingand the echoes rattle the pane.And the folks who swore to guard usjust smile and toe the line;you’d think they’d lost the ledgerwhere once they kept their spine. They check the polls at sunrise,run the numbers twice by noon,draft…
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The Edge of the Lawn
He held the edging shearslike the world only stayed steadyif he kept cutting.Like order was a thing he could still shapewith his hands,one clean snip at a time. I stood beside him,small, bright,orbiting his gravitywithout understanding its pull. He didn’t teach with words.He taught with posture,with the slow choreography of care,with the quiet insistencethat some…
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A Hinge That Creaks When You Touch It
The end of the year doesn’t merely arrive.It accumulateslike dust in corners,like thoughts you meant to throw outbut kept because they hummed when you touched them. Time gets slippery here.Days stack crooked.Hours lean against each otherlike they’re tired of holding themselves upright. You start hearing thingslike the soft click of a calendar shedding its skin,the…
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Frost On the Window
Frost on the window isn’t weather,it’s handwriting.Someone, something,scribbling messages in a languageyour breath almost understands. The patterns aren’t patterns.They’re maps.Blueprints.Veins of a creaturethat only exists when the temperature dropsand forgets itself when the sun returns. Sometimes the frost looks like branches,but the trees outside swearthey’ve never grown that way.Sometimes it looks like feathers,but no bird…
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A Sorry Habit
I say sorry for the weather, sorry for my shoes, sorry for the way silence sits heavy between us.My mouth is a coin purse and the word jingles out whenever the room tilts a degree I don’t like.I apologise like a habit. I apologise for walking into a room with too much thought, for folding…
Weather In My Ribs 