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This diary entry is written by fireonthemountain. ( View all entries )
 
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Marisol.Category: Things I like
Thursday, 16 December 2010
01:24:49 AM (GMT)
This is a poem by a friend of mine, Derek Avila. He's a good writer and such. And I
just really like this one.


 Someday she will write you.
 As children grow, inspiration blossoms. Wings of chaotic, joyous, technicolor
creativity will burst from your scapula,
 taking flight with a splendid range of color and identity my eye lenses were always
too weak to perceive.
 
 Handprints always stain the best on hearts bent sideways. Viewed by that angle, they
shape fallout survivors. 
You’ve never been for wishes, but have granted three hopes held tight.
 It dosn’t matter to which city you dwell anymore- everywhere can be cold at 3 a.m.
  

 Bellow for miles down white-spit highways out the passenger sidedoor. All
windscorched faces fail to clear  image lines soldered on us by the ones who got
through.

To the mothers- I knew you in all the ways never gained by two people meeting.  
To the mothers- I fell in love with your greatest creations, while they were just
sideprojects to you.

 When our destination catches up, it will find disgust in the cabinets, distaste in
the fruit bowl, 
dissastisfaction in the way forearms cling to countertops soiled by dirt and cosmic
leftovers.
 But we were flawless in the reflection of the microwave.

 Really, it’s all we were. Tupperware reminders of a delicious bounty shared
between
 those more suited for take-out. How it was all we could do to reheat ourselves, look
more appetizing, 
and fast on a prayer that they may never set foot in a kitchen again.

 Mother likes statues. There are a few where she calls home. They don’t talk back
when she colors them in her image. 
I recognize one well. It stands 2 ft. high, the lanky image of a woman, hands cupped
eyes grounded. She tells you:
 
 ”Child, do not live on hold, but hold on tight. Extend your peacefinders and
choke. See how pigment passes
 to yellow, brown, purple. You’ve seen this before. How flesh forms nursery
rhymes.
 It won’t be pretty. But you will know rectitude.”
 To the mothers- These were not labrats or prototypes; they were singing, damaged
Mona’s painted to extinguish 
gas fires with licked fingertips, stare statues for every morning you didn’t return
to the lab.   

To the mothers- You’re the reasons my first lovers were never virgins, why benches
framed bedposts 
more frequent then statistics ever dare show, why you, and you, and you, had to chase
yourselves
 right out of childhood to mask the nights open windows and locked doors shouted you
Home. 

 Kid sisters won’t always be kids. She will grow, remember, and someday, she will
write you.
 And when they touch her, they will feel how we ache.


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