For those of us who live at the center of a man’s world,
words written for us
expressing their desires,
thrown about like a boat in an ocean storm.
If such words could sculpt
they would create erotic pictures,
unrecognizable when faced with realism.
To be a woman in a man’s world,
if breasts could bounce
like that of a man’s eye.
When will the ink from a woman’s hand
be given such courtesy?
Words that roll from her lips
pierce the man like a dagger.
Having tasted the blade,
does it reminisce
of the flowers they so desperately wish to pluck?
You would reject the mirror
with images such as theirs.
You always towered over me
with thick and calloused hands holding my own,
a stark contrast to your slow, melodic voice.
When young, you would take me to the sea,
marking the stars with stories of old,
Orion, Ursa Major, Crius.
As I grew you taught me how to understand
all that is unjust, all that is pure,
and to never take my world for granted.
I failed you.
As decades rolled past me I never considered
they were passing for you too.
Slowly your stately frame shrunk, slumped,
as your hair grayed and fell to the ground unnoticed.
When I saw all this, it was too late.
Instead of those decades of memories to be made
I had wasted them on money, the future,
what could be instead of what is.
Those last years I had with you never changed the way I saw you,
though your height had diminished,
and your supple flesh stiffened.
Your eyes still gleamed as you pointed at the sky,
marking the stars with stories of old.
I will always remember you as you were in my youth
Join us to celebrate the Arcturus Launch Event on June 8th! Two events, one at 12:00 P.M. and the second at 5:30 P.M. Free food and free copies of the Arcturus will be available at both events! As well as a reading by Highline’s president, Dr. John Mosby in the afternoon event! We look forward to seeing you!
Dents in the wall, broken plates, and ash caking the furniture is all that remains in her house. There are tiny shards of glass fractured into spiderwebs, strewn across the floor. Maybe a fight, maybe a robbery, maybe nothing at all. But I think there is a drop of blood over by the windowsill, where the panes look too new and too neat. I thought there were limestone tiles by the fireplace, but maybe I was mistaken, and she always had that off-centered wood paneling, scratched and splintered like something had been ripped off. I’m sure he wouldn’t lie to me about where she is. He loves her so much. And he said he wasn’t home when the fight or the robbery or the nothing-at-all happened. He says she’s just away on vacation. But I find it a bit odd that something made this place so messy four days ago, yet the window is spotless, and the tiles are missing, just like my sister.