Poetry By
Emily Whitby
Published on: 8/1/2005
Untitled, For Now
You were conceived on a Monday in March when the cobalt sky was hard as a shell over still-white mountains, and a little girl in a lemon-yellow hood flung her arms into the air and said I'm throwing leaves into the sky! as I passed. I knew then that we must give you passage breathe into you watery life pave for you the bright road into a dark and cynical world, if only to let you stand in a lemon-yellow hood in March and cast sodden leaves into a cobalt sky.
Published on: 7/27/2005
Unsent Letter 7
You lean over your cup of bitter Indian chai. "Sometimes Michael drinks too much," you say as I sip; the hot dark liquid catches in my throat. Laughing, you pass the sugar. I realize, seeing you, that I've kept you, the past three years; kept everyone, in fact. I've hung you all up like newspaper clippings, a candle-lit shrine in my memory and there you've stayed, unchanging. Time changes; you think I'm naive, but I've learned that, at least. Yet you are the same: your hair a little blonder, breasts a little larger (I never could compete with that, you know), as you lean over your dark, bitter cup. Troy is living in D.C., you tell me. Neil is married, divorced, and married again; Natalie's sister committed suicide. But you are still Wendy-bird, grown old too soon from too much baby-sitting at the bar; a little Mormon girl married to an older Catholic man while your families looked the other way. You are the same, and watching you now, I know you still dance as though you knew how to fly. You are the same, and though the hot dark tea will burn my throat as I tip my cup, you will spoon sweet honey into yours, and stir and stir and stir.
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