an anchor
strong and stationed.
not wavering in the wind
or swaying in the sea.
just sitting, waiting
for someone to call for
help.
an anchor
stable and secure,
always ready nor fearful
of the unknown.
it is an anchor
I never had.
it is an anchor
you stole from me
the day you walked out.
it is an anchor
i still long for.
On a day like any other in a house just about the same as any other, in the playroom on the second floor she could be found. In the same computer chair, before the same television, playing and watching. Day after day. All the same.
What more could she do? What more did she care to do? There was only so much time left. How much she did not know. Nobody quite knew. There had been estimates but none had been accurate yet.
The day was rainy and gray, the room darkened by nature’s sour mood. She liked it that way. On sunny days she had to close the curtains so any possibility of glare on her precious television would be zero. The rain came down in alternating patterns of heavy torrents and lighter, steady drizzles. At the moment she could hear the finger-like pattering on the roof and the dull gurgle of the gutter as the rushing water attempted to squeeze by the dead, rotting leaves lodged in the small tunnel. Honey, her favorite cat, rubbed up against her leg and meowed loudly. She absent-mindedly reached down and felt for her, running her hand a few times along her back to her tail, the fur soft beneath her palm. After a few strokes she always lost interest and waited until the cat did also.
Windhover’s second Open Mic Night of 2011 was on November 18 at 7:30 in Caldwell Lounge and we had a wonderful turnout. Thanks to everyone who helped make it such a success. Look for an early spring Open Mic Night at Irregardless Cafe in February!
I was the one who was always crazy,
Yet, still safe
I never took enough risks
Because ninety eight percent of me
Was a “good kid”
It didn’t mean there wasn’t any wild in me
So, then I loved,
And I loved too hard
I was a crutch for someone;
I was like a healthy drug that kept them upright
Until I had to break away for my own good,
But, where are they now?
when I was young I dreamt woods littered with apotropaic charms,
a place where medieval gryphons could share
bread bowls with the kokopelli’s of the west
and fertility goddesses bared the bumps of their bellies
in nature—the knobby bark protruding from ancient trees,
the rounded stones rising up from out of the stream.
the faces of the men who chased after me were not reminiscent
of wanted bulletins or mug shots, but men with
honeyed lips, persistent in their cause to carry me
over the threshold of some cold but animated castle.
but when sleepwalking behind the townhouse,
the tangled sinew of roots rose up to trip me,
the stream that swelled below the bridge
gulped hard to try to swallow me,
the man’s hands did not caress but circled, gripped my neck
and arched my back over the railing,
my feet unsure of what to do in that moment
between surely suffocating or deciding to take the bait,
pushing myself over the edge and into the water,
a pole vaulter who’s head would hit those rocks
flight or fight instincts betraying her—
so they hung limply, waiting for an archaic hunter from lore
with his bow to shoot the man’s wrist that held me, waited
for those forest gods to answer.