Poetry By
C.E. Nichols
Published on: 2/20/2014
She said
She said you said this place was ten times better then the last one and I wondered did you mean the mental ward where they forced you to eat and take pills for the delusions or did you mean home where you screamed at the man who brought you food twice a day and escorted you gently to the bathroom. Or maybe you mean the last place you lived in your mind which was really this place. This morning.
Published on: 2/17/2014
Navigating the Hasty Waters
I navigate the hasty waters of "Grandpa's dead" from my spot on saggy orange couch cushions. A spring pokes me but I don't dare move. My bird thighs end in bent knobs. I can hear them clatter as they knock together under my scratchy plaid skirt. Like Grandpa, I am skeletal. I bite my lip to hold back a laugh. I wish I had an oar that would take me down the river, out of here. Or I could be a priestess, poling the Nile, sending off a departed king. Instead, I roll knee fuzz underneath my fingers and scratch a skateboard scab. I keep looking at everyone else. Where are the instructions on what you are supposed to do when someone dies. Apparently it involves casseroles. And wrinkled people that smell like something left too long in a closet. I snort. "It's okay to cry." Mom says. She and Grandma snuffle in the corner. Make the sign of the cross. I cast covert glances around the room, look for clues on grieving. As if I was the death detective. But I'm wide-eyed at the everyday feel in my chest. Weeks later, someone hands me a quarter, and my eyes feel funny. Then, I feel a gush, a rain gutter on my hands. I swallow back big loud waves. I think I might drown, here on the pea green carpet. Mother sneers. She calls my grief a show. When actually it's the right time and the place safe for my chest to fill up with goodbye.
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