laurnie

Yesterday you were silhouetted against my window Tiny clouds dotting your ears, your hands splayed Against the dust on the sill While cars sang melodies against the pavement. Today, The colors are all wrong, your voice is too high, and your Hands feel different. (Are they different?) You are shame, blame, and your eyelashes touch your cheek. (A fault line between our fingers: Break and shudder and gone.) We both watch your hand fall, hesitating, Like a leaf. It swings at your side. But you don't notice how it glows Orange through the cracked glass window, or How the cars have all fallen silent, Or how there are no clouds in

The sound of the vacuum will make the dogs Wail and skirt themselves into the corners Under your bed, still Layered in stale quilts, And the imprint of your spine on the sheets. The cat will place herself against The crack under your door, And she will mewl like a baby At three o clock in the morning When no one hears, because No one is listening. Mom will wander in her Pajamas with stars sewn into the hems, Earrings like solar systems, And she will spell your name out in Pieces of cereal, Leaves, Forks. And we will cry, Because that's what people do, And because you aren't there To knit us sweaters And pluck guitar st

If I were to write a poem about you, It'd be about sighing, mouths, cheeks. About flowers in hair, and strangers a-weeping, And hearts twined in a line, pale and sweet. Cupped hands, wreathed in refrains, A girl and life and blue watching eyes. Lips clenched and bunched, unfurling. Standing and curious, abrupt with lies. A boy grasping at shame and the heavens, Breath wandering, winding, bright. Pallid feet in pools of wrinkled poppies, Exquisitely, with flame, and sunset light.

     Andrew knows four languages and doesn't speak a word of any. His talents are carving pumpkins, washing windows, caring. His fault is caring too much. He cares too much when I don't wear jackets and when I get my feet wet and when I don't talk. He cared when he held my hand and I let him and he cared when he kissed me and I didn't kiss him back. I don't know what he cares about now. Andrew is dead.     He died two days ago and now his picture populates the papers, the television. It's a picture of him in the hospital, smiling at his mom. She's curled tightly in a metal chair beside him, face turned away. The doctor stands at the end of

There is a face on the old brick wall. Sometimes it's mouth will open up wide, Creaking and groaning, spitting out white bricks. The teeth spill out, collect on the dirt, on their sides. Or so they say. Sometimes a kid that wanders off, Will meet the face on the old brick wall. The maw of the wall will crumble and close, Swallow his fingers, his eyes, his hair, his toes. Or so they say. Sometimes the face will watch you as you walk, It's eyes are brown, brick, black, blue. They've seen what you've done, what you do, what you will do. The face will only stop watching when the lies are true. Or so they say.

"Does it matter," you say, Legs on the monkey bars, Hanging upside down, "What you wish for, When everything you wish Has already come true?" My feet are tangled firmly In the ground and the grass. "No, yes, I guess. But there are always Things to wish for." Why, When your back Is twisted, bent, spine Raised like hills out of your skin, When you fly too close To the sun, too often, Do you hang, Smiling. (Upside down, Is it a frown?) The swing-set creaks And groans, And so does your broken body, As you lower Yourself to the ground. Face flushed lovely, Like a child. Your pain forgotten, or Maybe just ignored. You