The Poetry Marathon

The juice of a ripe plum rolls down my chin
while the citrus scent of geraniums perfume the air

Our laugher, like fireworks, paints the sky gold;
the fading fingers of the sun tangle our hair

A chorus of crickets underscores stories
shared over peach pie and wine

We welcome the moon as she inches skyward
and we do not mourn the loss of sunshine

For we wrap ourselves in blankets
and memories and know that here we are free

To open our hearts, share our scars,
and be all we’ve ever dreamed we could be.

Your bare chest ripples beneath my cheek
as creases sprout beside your eyes
and my phone vibrates with missed calls
but I don’t want to hear anything else

except the way the air crackles when
you take your next breath and how
the birdsongs fade beneath the roar
of your carbonated joy

It was three am when the snake appeared.

Slithered into my dreams with shining scales
and the topaz eyes of a mother.
Not my mother.

Kind like hers, but with more sorrow
and a confidence born from surviving
the hurricane.

I wondered what memories paint her
fears and how it would feel to cry in
technicolor.

She held me as I shook and whispered
soft things into the folds between my
anxieties.

I wept in navy sorrows and stained
the sheets with unwashed
grief

While she hummed foreign lullabies
to the tune of some happier child’s
sleep.

Rest easy, young one, she sang
as she dried my staccato
tears,

You are not so lost as you think.

I scrape the remains of roasted marshmallow from my fingertips
with greedy teeth and ignore the dirt of unwashed hands that comes
with it. Someone hums a campfire song; I’ll still remember the words
when I’m thirty. Fingernails fill with dried sweat and sunscreen as I itch
at the morning’s bug bite. Sun-stained cheeks fade from rose to amber
and the crackle of the campfire smells like a home I’ve never been to.
“I can see the Big Dipper,” you say and point to Orien’s Belt. I don’t
correct you; not out of kindness, but because for the next decade I’ll
point to Orien’s Belt and call it the Big Dipper too. I don’t remember
where we were or even why we were there, but I still remember the
taste of the rapids and the way every caterpillar had a name.

you told me to close my eyes and count to ten,
to come and find you when i opened them again

but in the darkened beats i felt your fingers
intertwine with mine. “i didn’t want you to be alone,”
you said. we decided to play tag instead.

that summer we stained our fingerprints
with chlorine and strawberry popsicles

but soon, years drew lines across our faces and sad smiles
held stories we saved for red wine and winter nights

until, finally, I told you about him.
“close your eyes and count to ten,” you said

it was summer when he stained my fingerprints
with kisses covered in poison, but you wiped my tears
that winter and said, “now open them”

and in the glow of the firelight, you reached your hand
towards mine and promised, “you never have to be alone again.”

Canary whispers
Taunting the emerald floors
Laugh with every breath

My Dear, Sweet Sarah,

I remember the day you said goodbye.
With a final pause in the doorway,
you turned to me and smiled.

We both ignored the tears that filled your eyes.

“I’ll see you when I get back from Scotland.”
At this point, we knew it was a lie.
But sometimes lies taste better than
the truth, so we let the sweet promise
of tomorrow fill the room.

Countless times I held my daughter’s hand
while she wept. You boarded planes bound
for places I’d only meet by postcard while
we returned to defrosting peas alone.

But at this last goodbye, she did not weep.
Eventually, tears become too gentle
a language for the blade of grief
that rips your soul in two.

So don’t cry for me; no salt-stained
sheets will cure your hurt.
Instead, whenever you hold a lily,
let the sweet scent remind you

there is always
the promise of tomorrow.

Yours for eternity,
Elle

I skip barefoot across the pavement,
Ignoring your warnings.
“Watch for nails!” you cry.

But when the sunflowers are in bloom,
I am invincible, and the oak tree
keeps calling my name.

I dance in the space beneath its
boughs and tell stories of princesses
who never needed a prince.

Knitting tales of knights who ride
wolves rather than steads, I create
witches with secrets too beautiful to speak.

The butterfly wings drip with gold
and the grass still smells like morning,
but I do not count the hours as they pass;

For the taste of imagination is sweet
on my tongue and my eyes see truths
time will teach me not to trust.

But here, under the branches
of the oak tree, I know that dreams
are the stories we decide to believe.

2003: Sitting on laminate benches
trading gushers for gummy bears
I declared, “I’m going to live
for another one hundred years.”

You claimed one hundred and one;
You always did need to be
better than me, but neither of us
could picture life in 2103.

2007: It’s neither the sticks nor the stones
I fear, but words with teeth that tear
at who you thought you could be.
I started to doubt 2103.

2013: I know the sound of shadows
as they whisper my name; the shape
of knives that glint beneath moonlight.
I tried not to think about 2103.

2016: Memories claw at locked
hearts; the world grows darker
as you take your last breath.
I swore not to make it to 2103.

2020: Sirens become my lullabies
as I memorize the smell of hospital
beds. Everything breaks; everyone too.
There may never be a 2103.

2022: The dry earth cracks as the forest
burns, but the bluebird still sings
and in its croon I hear the call
of a tomorrow drawing ever near.

Perhaps a hundred years isn’t so great.
Perhaps all that matters is how you use today.

I’m tired of waiting for 2103.

Breath like silk as it ties

a noose I long to lie within.

Hands like talons that tear

gasps from my willing skin.

Lips burn stories across

my chest while teeth etch

scars into my heart. Dangle

my desire over the edge

and watch me fall when

you let go.