The golfers they mow down the grasses, quick witted yet drunk off their asses. They putt towards the hole, avoiding a mole. For rudeness they all get free passes!
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Mary Jackson
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She Speaks Like Fall
Mother. Your gold words fall around me. Sometimes violently they blow by. Sometimes softer, more yellow and quiet. Brightly they move, blowing off each branch. They scatter, some in patterns that fit. Some in piles of thoughts that crave sorting. Moving only in the chaos of what comes naturally. Here in nature. I walk amongst them, hear each one crunch underfoot. I see some, as they fall from your mouth to where the wind then rests. Where ever. I shuffle through, understanding only parts from time to time as much as my mind wanders with my feet through the golden hues. That orange one is a memory. The red one is this moment. The shades of yellow are all of love's hues. The warmth of each one, where they lay, where they fall, where the breeze blows them. Scattering again. It's hard for me too, I try to say with each step. I'm focused on my path through this green forest where I keep walking, even if they keep falling around me. Even if they keep lining my way. Confounding in my face sometimes, but constant from full, white branches that stretch out across a periwinkle sky. This forest is ours and it is beautiful and it glows in yellows and golds.
By Mary Jackson5 years ago in Poets
1:49am
4/16/25 1:49am I want to breathe death in my larynx and feel loose change in the torn and raggedy pockets of my mother’s cardigan. The water is next to the bed. It’s not cold and never will be. So I guess what’s left is us; we will walk with crooked feet on a path carved by ancient societies. You will borrow my shoes. I will taste vengeance in my tea and convince myself it’s good for my liver. Coffee is fine too. Yes, that’s all. I will think about how I want to kiss you and, the clouds, they will rise to space, and leaves, they will glue their limbs back together. The sun has been out for weeks. This screw isn’t any looser than when I bought it. But I will wake up and I will be in the ship that splits in two and slide my sullen palms across its tundric pillow. I never took swimming lessons so whatever happens is meant to be. I’m sorry if that upsets you. I’m sorry I said that. Anyway, I want to lie nude in wildflowers with ants who build colonies and worms who can’t see. You have a problem with textures. You can’t help it. I could try to tell you things, like how I want my children to understand how little everything is and to not be afraid of the giant fingers that grab at sewing needles in their dreams. I could say it always scared me. It’s just not right. But listen, back to it: I want to indulge in passion and binge affection. Is it a sin if it helps? I will endure the things I am given and inculcate everyone around me to do the same. Do five laps around the block before you respond, whatever helps. I will tell you I want harmony to be palpable and wheels of recognition to be locked in an imperishable gear. Refill the pot if it’s empty. What I want has nothing to do with me. Diagonal tile is cold, you know, and my hair gets crunchy after too long out there. I want this lesson to end.
By Olivia Dodge4 days ago in Poets
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