Poetry
Arizona
I need those rocks,
mysterious masses,
chunks of copper,
stable in their stance,
determined to be close to the sky.
I have to watch them bake in the sun,
eating the white hot rays
and holding the heat inside each red rock.
I’ve searched, but
there’s no other place like this:
where my skin evaporates
right along with my breath.
one sigh, one shiver,
and it’s all gone.
When the sun takes his exit,
I lie on the dusty red ground
and warm my bones.
As I clutch, grasp, and devour
the lingering heat of the day,
I feel my marrow begin to thaw
and a smile spreads across
what is left of me.
I need those rocks,
mysterious masses,
chunks of copper,
stable in their stance,
determined to be close to the sky.
I have to watch them bake in the sun,
eating the white hot rays
and holding the heat inside each red rock.
I’ve searched, but
there’s no other place like this:
where my skin evaporates
right along with my breath.
one sigh, one shiver,
and it’s all gone.
When the sun takes his exit,
I lie on the dusty red ground
and warm my bones.
As I clutch, grasp, and devour
the lingering heat of the day,
I feel my marrow begin to thaw
and a smile spreads across
what is left of me.
Eating the Stars
I plucked stars from the sky,
dwarfs and giants alike.
I cut ribbon from the Milky Way
to tie them all together.
You said they were beautiful
but already dead, or dying.
You made me eat them.
They tumbled down my lungs.
Galaxies ballooned inside me.
You asked how they tasted.
Like cinnamon and salt.
I left the stems at your feet,
nibbled beyond repair.
You reached out to deflate me
but I wafted away.
No one will burst my belly of hope.
© Lauren E Ward 2011
I plucked stars from the sky,
dwarfs and giants alike.
I cut ribbon from the Milky Way
to tie them all together.
You said they were beautiful
but already dead, or dying.
You made me eat them.
They tumbled down my lungs.
Galaxies ballooned inside me.
You asked how they tasted.
Like cinnamon and salt.
I left the stems at your feet,
nibbled beyond repair.
You reached out to deflate me
but I wafted away.
No one will burst my belly of hope.
© Lauren E Ward 2011
No Contest
I’m a water barrel in an old western
after the gunfire is over.
All the love is falling out of me
through half inch holes.
You wanted a showdown
and I wanted a truce.
You pulled out your guns
and got your way.
I’d replaced my bullets with tulips.
You kept firing until you got it all
and more,
not satisfied until you tore it all away.
No more songs on the acoustic,
no more flowers at the bookstore.
I stand at my register alone
selling bridal magazines to pretty girls
with pretty rings on their fingers
thinking of my pretty ring at home,
never to be worn again.
© Lauren E Ward 2011
I’m a water barrel in an old western
after the gunfire is over.
All the love is falling out of me
through half inch holes.
You wanted a showdown
and I wanted a truce.
You pulled out your guns
and got your way.
I’d replaced my bullets with tulips.
You kept firing until you got it all
and more,
not satisfied until you tore it all away.
No more songs on the acoustic,
no more flowers at the bookstore.
I stand at my register alone
selling bridal magazines to pretty girls
with pretty rings on their fingers
thinking of my pretty ring at home,
never to be worn again.
© Lauren E Ward 2011
Parris Island
I could hear the chanting,
the sound of hundreds of sneakers
stomping the pavement at the same second.
I paused to watch them run by,
each one looking exactly the same as the other.
Green shirt. Green shorts. Black shoes.
How would I ever find him?
We Make Marines.
The solid metal sign was strewn like a banner
over the main road on the island.
A factory for churning out soldiers.
Strip them of their clothes, their hair,
their identity.
Package them neatly –all accessories included:
uniforms, rule book, guns.
Did he learn how to kill another man?
I sat with proud families in the auditorium
but I wore no special colors,
held no special sign.
The marched them into the building,
quick and efficient, still all the same.
The music played, they saluted,
they were released and
I
choked
up.
Through a sea of green, I found him,
my younger brother, now a Marine.
He hugged me in a way he never had before.
On the tour he gave us of the grounds,
he seemed taller than before he came here.
He hadn’t grown; he’d changed.
His speech was: quiet, confident.
His posture was: firm, proud.
His mood was: calm, patient.
Happy.
It didn’t matter anymore
what he had seen, learned, chosen;
nor did it matter that he looked
like every other man around us.
He had the same heart – a better heart.
This island may not be
the beginning of an end after all.
© Lauren E Ward 2011
I could hear the chanting,
the sound of hundreds of sneakers
stomping the pavement at the same second.
I paused to watch them run by,
each one looking exactly the same as the other.
Green shirt. Green shorts. Black shoes.
How would I ever find him?
We Make Marines.
The solid metal sign was strewn like a banner
over the main road on the island.
A factory for churning out soldiers.
Strip them of their clothes, their hair,
their identity.
Package them neatly –all accessories included:
uniforms, rule book, guns.
Did he learn how to kill another man?
I sat with proud families in the auditorium
but I wore no special colors,
held no special sign.
The marched them into the building,
quick and efficient, still all the same.
The music played, they saluted,
they were released and
I
choked
up.
Through a sea of green, I found him,
my younger brother, now a Marine.
He hugged me in a way he never had before.
On the tour he gave us of the grounds,
he seemed taller than before he came here.
He hadn’t grown; he’d changed.
His speech was: quiet, confident.
His posture was: firm, proud.
His mood was: calm, patient.
Happy.
It didn’t matter anymore
what he had seen, learned, chosen;
nor did it matter that he looked
like every other man around us.
He had the same heart – a better heart.
This island may not be
the beginning of an end after all.
© Lauren E Ward 2011
This Will Only Hurt a Little
I sat on a chair that looked much like an examining chair
in a doctor’s office would look like,
tan and wide, but without the waxy paper under my ass.
He came at me first with clamps,
closing them down over my bottom lip
with the grace of a person playing Jenga.
I didn’t move my face but glanced down
at the newly unwrapped tools next to me.
His face moved closer to mine,
his lip and nose and eyebrow and ear piercings
within inches of my eyes. A deep breath from me,
and he shoved the needle through my lip.
No pain, a little pressure.
A little silver hoop replaced the needle
before I had time to process that I had
just achieved an eight year old goal.
I smiled and the nausea swooped up
from the basement of my belly to the roof of my head.
But he was a professional, expertly reading the color
(or lack thereof) on my face
and popping a glucose tablet into my mouth.
A little queasiness was a small price to pay
for a brand spanking new lip ring.
The bigger price will be the stares, the questions,
taking it out for work, putting it in for play.
You’re not a kid anymore, they’ll say,
Are you going through a quarter-life crisis?
You should know better.
And I do.
This hoop in my lip is an engagement ring,
to myself and from myself:
a pledge to my unwavering identity.
© Lauren E Ward 2011
I sat on a chair that looked much like an examining chair
in a doctor’s office would look like,
tan and wide, but without the waxy paper under my ass.
He came at me first with clamps,
closing them down over my bottom lip
with the grace of a person playing Jenga.
I didn’t move my face but glanced down
at the newly unwrapped tools next to me.
His face moved closer to mine,
his lip and nose and eyebrow and ear piercings
within inches of my eyes. A deep breath from me,
and he shoved the needle through my lip.
No pain, a little pressure.
A little silver hoop replaced the needle
before I had time to process that I had
just achieved an eight year old goal.
I smiled and the nausea swooped up
from the basement of my belly to the roof of my head.
But he was a professional, expertly reading the color
(or lack thereof) on my face
and popping a glucose tablet into my mouth.
A little queasiness was a small price to pay
for a brand spanking new lip ring.
The bigger price will be the stares, the questions,
taking it out for work, putting it in for play.
You’re not a kid anymore, they’ll say,
Are you going through a quarter-life crisis?
You should know better.
And I do.
This hoop in my lip is an engagement ring,
to myself and from myself:
a pledge to my unwavering identity.
© Lauren E Ward 2011
Wildfire
The heat is far from
over.
like a w i l d f i r e,
There will never be water
cold enough
to put out this blaze.
© Lauren E Ward 2011
The heat is far from
over.
like a w i l d f i r e,
- making my heart explode with all of the inexhaustible hope
There will never be water
cold enough
to put out this blaze.
© Lauren E Ward 2011