Snowy Village (prompt writing)

“One, two, three, four…” Melanie whispered to herself, half prayer, half command as peered out her bedroom window into the night. So far, all the houses were lit along the upper ridge, snuggled against the snowy base of the mountain range that both protected and isolated their little valley.

“…five, six, seven..”, she continued, willing the windows in the other houses to be shining with what had to pass as hope this deep into winter. At seven years old, Melanie did not fully comprehend the relationship between action and responsibility.  Her light counting ritual held the weight in her tiny heart of destiny, as if she could stop the next light from burning out through her vigilance. 

She craned her neck to the left, and saw only one house lit up towards the far embankment. Yesterday there had been two. Melanie squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. It must have been the Meuller’s house. Stephan had been in her class at school. Now he and his sister Anna were gone.

Melanie was lucky, she had more than enough food in her cellar to get her through the winter. It was supposed to have been for her mother and father, too, but now that she was alone… She would share it with anyone who wanted some- she swore she would- but nobody dared leave their houses. Not since the strange sickness started picking them off, one by one.

“…eight, nine…” Melanie resumed her tallying. She felt a twinge of something, something she was too young to put a name to. She knew she should have shared. Shouldn’t have run round the town dripping the poison into everyone’s grain. She would apologise when spring came, if she just kept counting.

Off to the right, another light flickered out.

His seasons

and her pause, like the edge
of autumn’s breathing, when she feels
the freeze will come
and all that dry hope is piled
neatly at the curb.
Because she knows it,
the sudden storms,
the way he shakes the house, how
she hears the rumble
and starts to count. Knows
she no longer asks herself
which is worse,

the peeling and the glare,
the burn of constant exposure
or
the grey damp silence
reaching bone.

How she’ll still put on
her floral dress, pockets
ripped away, and water
her salted garden.

Cement

I want to lie down, melt
into the rough grey cement
of the supermarket sidewalk.
There between the hardened wads of bubble gum
and the fluorescent trickles of dog urine
I will reside, singing blithely
with the shopping carts squealing
like piglets at the slaughter.
Cooled by the heavenly shade
of the newspaper machines and the super bounce balls,
both offering more than they can deliver,
I will stretch out and accept my fate.
All this,
not to once again face the bubbling asphalt sea
with my battered vessel,
and return to you.

I dare you

to love me,
me with the needy eyes and the untamed hair,
your forget-me-nots slowly dying on the sill.
The sun slips through the littered room exposing
half-read books, half-bitten nails and there I am
hoping you’ll embrace the crumpled sheets
and crumbs.

Though my ears are filled with siren song
and my mouth spews wildfire, my nimble fingers
could make daisy chains with your body
if I just learned to sit still.
And I would swallow constellations, dot
the stars along your hairline and dance
in Taurus’ obliging twinkle.

But then
there are those long pauses waiting
to breathe, my weakness lying around us
like scorched earth, just to see if you’ll jump.
And there’s so little left that doesn’t ache
that I dare you
to find me
before I turn to ash.

Neuroplasticity

When once-rejected yearning circles back
Like light that reaches from a now dead star
You thought your mind had well erased that track
When once-rejected yearning circles back
And finds you craving things that left you slack
A moment’s dopamine can leave a scar
When once-rejected yearning circles back
Like light that reaches from a now dead star

Death by Annoyance

A sock
isn‘t enough
to make me loathe
his breathing
at night,
I know.
Grey and lazy
near, but not in,
the hamper
it lies alongside
his intermittent gases
and his shouts
of ‘Ha! I knew it!’
at CSI reruns.

Perhaps
the monotony
of his underarm
scratch-and-sniff
or the inevitable
toilet seat flight
gives rise to this,
what could almost be
passion- this urge
to pick up the sock
and stuff it in
his sleeping mouth
with just a pinch
on his bulbous nose
to relish the sweet
silence.

Tooth Fairy

And you tell yourself that
she’s learned the secret,
the piggy bank’s promise
of nows not spent, or that
her simple pleasures grow
more costly and it is only right.
And yet it’s you
who’s learned the value
of a finite set, of milk breath,
of white magic placed under a pillow,
and each time leave a little bit more,
linger at the bedside holding
the last piece.