Young Writers Society

The Rebellion

Sometimes words stand on edge
like fingertips pressed to a windowpane.

I know a girl who constantly hushes herself,
pretends she's an angry librarian
with no one to read her books.
She speaks softly when she feels alone
and never speaks when spoken to.
I think she may be a rebel
who doesn't know how to fight.

I told her
that I thought words were a way
for me to press my fingers against her lips
until she kissed lovers with my fingerprints.
She told me that words meant nothing,
as she always kissed lovers with my fingerprints.

Sometimes words stand on edge
like fingertips pressed to a windowpane,
but sometimes they wait in my lap,
held captive between folded hands.

An Embrace

Caught by surprise in falling snow,
I offer a soldier's promise.
"I'll be home soon."
And I breathe
through cigarette filters.

Outside on the ice,
tires spin as they search
for something to grab hold of.
In the kitchen her eyes start frosting over,
as if she's already a widow
who sits in her chair
while cataracts turn everything
into a plastered wall.

Steam builds in my lungs
as I inhale and stare at her.
I hold the steam there for a moment,
let my chest puff as I step back inside
and press my lips to her eyelids.

Exhale like a father,
exhale like a husband,
then find the difference.

A Promise

We are kings,
crucified to cross the t's
in each forgotten love letter.

"Be patient darling,
it will happen someday."

The Orchard

Old friends cough before shaking hands.
The men cling to their skin like grapefruit
cut from the trees and
clasped between the hands of young boys.

Teeth marks say "I love you" better
than words, and skin breaks easily.
Juice washes pulp from the tongue,
and boys are content with
the sweetness that follows bitterness.

But old friends insist on shaking hands
and covering their mouths when they cough.
Perhaps they are afraid of baring their teeth
and scaring each other away.

Scattershot

We birthed children in scattershot,
telling them the blisters on their fingers
were from holding hands with god.
And now we ask for god's help
when they wait in line,
telling us that to suffer is to love.

On the stairs of a church,
I was baptised by an infant's fingers.
They pressed against my palm,
and I was afraid of him
because he couldn't remember yesterday
and I could.

Just for today, houses look like the altars
he drew on my fingerbones.
I rub the joints to find each nail
and the splintered wood that surrounds it.
The cracks in my skin record the past,
and promise that today will be worth remembering.

Inheritance

Father daughter,
surprised by laughter,
they skipped rocks
on a frozen lake.

Intubated and incubated
like a chick caught-
rows and rows
in the hatchery.
She found pneumonia.

Now she trades
a kiss for some kicks.
Now she talks in tongues
and whispers in latin,
spoken word for the fathers
and the Romans.

Bent over calculus,
she tries to integrate
some innocence,
but she's not a girl.
She's not a girl,
even while each skirt unfurls
and pulls her down.

The curtain falls on each ankle,
and she kisses like she loves,
to the flick of a heartbeat,
to the tick of a clock
on the mantlepiece.
But tell her he sold her soul,
and she sputters
and drowns in wax.