We live in the same house Pink brick, green shutters, rusty rails holding up a roof, battered by the elements hurricane ravaged with shingles ripped out by the dozens and trees torn out by the roots
To our parents none of this matters We are family - flesh of my flesh blood of my blood love’s passion fruit
Yet, thin skin pulled over too-taut grin, mouth watering and eyes glassy, awaits slumber - in order to lumber to pockets to loot
And though it’s true their blood runs through you You are a stranger. Influenced by drugs and excited by danger, rendering our blood tie moot.
About the Creator
Hyacinth Andersen
I write poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.
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These Hands
I hold your hand as you lie still upon crisp, white sheets and I gaze about this sterile environment thinking about moments from the past - how these hands picked okra on the family farm until they bled during harvest season and gathered eggs from chickens - though many were your pets, how these hands soothed a fevered brow or stirred batter for a birthday cake or prepared casseroles for a friend’s funeral service though you were in mourning, too, how these hands talk without trying to - upward and outward conveys happiness at a big event and downward or clenched relays anger or despair, and how these hands covered your eyes so I wouldn’t see you cry.
By Hyacinth Andersen5 years ago in Poets
A Dart at Dusk
Seconds ago, the sullen sun set on the two of us… my exuberant furry companion and me. A fresh breeze embraces us, delivering welcome relief from the day’s oppressive heat. His typical stumbling and staggering along — apace with a sloth — has turned into trip-trapping, high-stepping, almost skipping along.
By Angie the Archivist 📚🪶3 days ago in Petlife
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