May I ?

Salt
Salt
Sep 9, 2018 · 2 min read

after Daughter by Deana Lawson

Deana Lawson, Daughter

The need to take flight, to escape out of the room;

like stillness wasn’t enough; like pain entered the flesh,

a marking, a signal.

And standing there, waiting for whatever, cloaked in silence,

and all the ways the body can be emptied of its meanings

and anyway, not caring, not wanting,

caught in the texture of the day.

Hours pass through the skin and the light burrows itself

into the room, and to be standing there,

hoping for an embrace that won’t come,

the torturous ache of it,

the head as if expanding.

The tiredness that draws the girl inwards,

the boredom of it all, and she is still standing there

wanting suspension,

flight,

the thrill of the chase.

This Is About Sorrow

Deana Lawson, Family Portrait

It is humiliating to be reduced to whatever it is

the stare means;

undone and yet solidly there

we’re talking about the memory of the body,

the numbness

slowly blurring whatever surrounds her.

She isn’t out of place, and yet,

she’s frightened

what could happen in seconds

what could be snatched&ripped

and her mind cannot conceive

that she could be drawn

to despair,

waiting on bended knees,

a prayer without hope.

Her daughter has been playing with her hair,

and now, right this instant, she

can’t breathe.

If you liked the poems, you can tip me here.

Salt

Written by

Salt

I write essays and poems.

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