Poem for You

January 11, 2008
By Ashley Gordon, Arlington Heights, IL

If I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you,
it would be about the shiny wood floors and small blue bed.
It would be about blonde hair and talking plastic,
pink dream cars and fighting over ken.
It would be about crack the egg and fox in the chicken coop,
and the bouncy black surface where we spent many summer days.
It would be about the wind flying in our hair,
blasting spice girls, screaming mispronounced lyrics,
sun softly grazing the tips of our noses.
It would be about laughing late at night,
watching old home videos,
talking about Max’s dark eyes,

and Kyle’s cute smile.

It would be about playing house,
you know you’re the mom, I’m the baby,
except for when Amanda plays,
she’s always got to be the baby.
It would be about the albums filled with dusty photographs,
resting on the shiny wood floor,
hidden under the small blue bed.


Everything happens for a reason.
She looked down at the ground,
eyes burrowing into the cracked tile,
face flushed and lifeless.
How can you believe that?
Now starring at me,
our eyes locked,
my heart beats increasing.
The room blurs,
I only see her face.
I have to.
Swallowing hard,
I reach out,
slide my hand over hers.
Her black nails weaved through my fingers,
and for the first time since,
she looked at me and smiled.

Tire Swing

Soft breeze circles with the sunlight,
dancing leaves bob along the ground.
Velcro shoes stomp through the wood chips,
crunching them into tiny pieces,
scattered in all directions.
Tire swing rocks back and forth,
head resting at the edge,
hands and feet weaved through metal chains.
Faster, faster Michael!
Spinning trees twist above,
into a blur of green and brown.
Sun pokes though every crack,
playing peak-a-boo with the clouds.
My arms are tired Ashley.
Giggles spreading though the air,
now lay soft,
resting on the winding breeze,
floating away with fallen leaves.

Two Pillows

Covers grazing over me,
buried in yellow sheets,
like a child trapped in the sand,
vent cooling the air.
Faded light bulb,
flickering on and off.
White television cornering the room,
remaindering stickers, picked and peeled off,
scattered around the rim.
Jumbling radio,
can’t make out a single word.
Two pillows resting on the bed,
My head sunk in between.
Brown door blocking the tall dresser,
slightly tilted off balance,
standing lonely behind it, like a lost dog.
Blankly starring at the white ceiling,
blurring eyes,
moving quickly out of focus.

Black Coffee

Black velvet chairs pressed arm to arm,
finger tips, just inches away.
He moves his hand towards his coffee mug,
gripping its handle,
leaning in, his lips hitting the chipped rim.
She reaches out to the cream,
pouring in every last drop,
cheating him out of the rest.

His heel taps on the tile,
getting louder and louder.
Can’t we just talk about this?
Her blue polished nails reaching out to him,
he jolts his arm out of her loose grip.
I can’t even look at you right now.

She stares down,
now noticing every crack in the tile floor.
He grabs his coffee off the table,
leaving a circular burn,
branded into the wood.

Her coffee now half empty,
restless in the mug.
Squeezing the rim tight,
heat spreading,
ripping off her hand off,
palms left bright red.

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