Young Writers Society

into mist


My father said
“clouds aren’t fluffy, they’re just very wet.
Like mist”

He could say that because he
had been to the top of a mountain,
all socked in.

I think in his head,
he still hasn’t come down.

*

I live in the land of mist;

step two feet farther
and I’ve lost you.

My landmarks obscured,
I hope I still know
the shifting path
beneath my feet.

I call out to the greyed-out
silhouette, voice muted.

It doesn’t turn back.

Glories


Glory beaming, glory streaming, glory be to God,
Lord and Maker, First and the Last, King and Child;
o, sing to the skies, greet the heavens, praise and
rejoice, knees to the ground and eyes to the stars;
ye faithful, your God has come: glory.

*

Why have I no words of my own
to praise the King of Kings?

We speak of light and love
and I yearn to feel this in my heart;

but we forget that love can hurt
and light can burn;

I must not be righteous
enough
if I can remember that.

*

My body wasn’t made to contain these glories
skin breaking under the tender strain of perfection;
the light that shines through my eyes, blinding me.

Are we there yet?


Do your hands know the steering wheel
like your eyes know the road?

Do you still feel a searching pull
of somewhere left to go?

Wide river,
gorge,
throat opening
in the rock;

hills that
hide
city lights
behind
mist.

Do the hairpin turns lose you, confuse you,
or do they point the way home?

Do your feet feel firm on the ground
like you’ve found your magnetic pole?

dissemble


I cut my hair
to the length it was
when I last felt like
me.

I bought a blazer
to go along with my job applications;
I look more professional
than I am.

I visited a city
and pretended it was
my home,
but I know nothing.

I let you plan
our future
when I already know:
mine is different.