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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4162 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Bouquet Treezaa (T. E. Ballard) Slow hum of woman talking to a man she does not love folding and unfolding her fingers, as if loving is an act of will. Today I see things clearly— my eyes are the skins of onions crying to be heard. Today I could be a prophet, a Peter on his upside down cross. Their child talks to a flower that does not open, he forces the red petals straight till his fingers are stained with sweet blood. Pretty, pretty, he says as the yellow powder falls to his mother like rain. She does not see, her words are floating above and she is with them still. I touch the ropes which tie a family one to the other. Look, look, the boy says as he cuts the air with a stem. Wings. |
