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Daily Deviation
April 22, 2012
Puddled Gasoline by =TwilightPoetess
Featured by thorns
Suggested by saevuswinds
Literature Text
Hear me read it! Puddled Gasoline
Someone left the car on
with the garage door closed again;
mother-of-pearl rainbows
streak the harsh winter concrete
as I breathe past the fumes.
Your son,
forgetful seventeen
at its finest,
blares Grunge
or Punk
or some other form of noise
I'm not familiar with.
He will not hear me screaming
when I tug open the door
and you spill out like a puddle
onto my freshly-buffed shoes,
because I will not be screaming
at all.
For the first time
in almost twenty years of marriage,
you've silenced me.
Someone left the car on
with the garage door closed again;
mother-of-pearl rainbows
streak the harsh winter concrete
as I breathe past the fumes.
Your son,
forgetful seventeen
at its finest,
blares Grunge
or Punk
or some other form of noise
I'm not familiar with.
He will not hear me screaming
when I tug open the door
and you spill out like a puddle
onto my freshly-buffed shoes,
because I will not be screaming
at all.
For the first time
in almost twenty years of marriage,
you've silenced me.
Literature
Where are regrets kept?
Perhaps in the hollow
space between
my clavicle
and scapula-
That's where your chin
rested all summer long
and that's where the tears
fell in September.
Literature
saudade
Last week, you showed up with the thunder on my doorstep.
Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.
There wa
Literature
couldn't blue
i draw a picture of
tomorrow morning:
a man in a silver box sells
75 cent coffee and bad bagels.
his shirt is the kind of blue no one ever
tried to name a crayon after.
dust-plastic blue,
tried to love you
(couldn't)
blue.
and the morning is that same color,
the color of canned lightning-bugs and
unfiltered cigarettes and desire,
because that is all you
draw with couldn't blue.
i pay him 1.25 in change and purse-lint
so that a fourth-world factory can make more
silver boxes to sell more things
more stale blueberry muffins.
and he will keep gathering change
in 75 cent purse-lint increments
in the small sinking townships of
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
NaPoWriMo Day 15.
Written for prompts set by
--gasoline rainbows--AND 
--being silenced by something/someone.
April 15, 2012
*****EDIT 4/22/2012--A DD?! Thank you!******
Written for prompts set by
--gasoline rainbows--AND --being silenced by something/someone.April 15, 2012
*****EDIT 4/22/2012--A DD?! Thank you!******
© 2012 - 2024 betwixtthepages
Comments92
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Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactI found this poem very tragic, although it took me a minute to figure it out. The conflicting imagry of the first stanza is very good. I like how the second paragraph creates the relationship between the speaker and the subject perfectly without using the word "husband". Contrasting his death with the "freshly-buffed shoes" is a great way to show her disregard that no doubt led to his depression and demise. Even more telling is the word "again" in the first paragraph. If I interperet correctly, she has driven him to this point before, and done nothing to change. Awful.