Try Number Two

The Years the Locusts Ate

The first year tasted sweet, late spring sunsets, and crisp. It crunched beneath our wings, a pebble in giants’ hands. The second year was almost as sweet, the first candle lit to fill the darkness. It wasn’t our fault; we followed the wind.

It wasn’t our fault; we need the desert to survive like you need your God. The third year crunched delicious, the last of your crops crumbling behind our feet. The fourth year, the dark overcame your homes, tasted burnt and tired, hopelessness like fruit wrapped in plastic. It wasn’t our fault; we followed the fire.

We woke after the rain. We danced like warhorses, an army in perfect step until your stars shook from the sky, your faces paled with terror, your sunlight and dust tasted the same.

It wasn’t our fault, sent for your repentance and our delight, in earthquakes caused by our jealous wings and the sound of quiet tremblings in heaven. The years became sour, and it wasn’t our fault. We followed the wind.

We ate until the moon shattered in the desert, until your hearts could no longer bend, until you traded children for sour wine, until you fell, chasing pleasure instead of freedom, until death crept beneath the roots and into the stones, ravaged your minds and filled you with fear.

We grew full and spewed stench in all directions, to the northern army and the western sea, full of your cries and your wails for relief that would not come. After we finished our feast, we moved on with the wind, you stayed, your hearts stuck in the crevice of aimless wandering, a panting flame lost in the desert. Your cities full of ash and boredom, unemployment of the mind and waiting for the sought after restoration that would not come.

It wasn’t our fault, we followed the fire.

school assignment- first draft

The Years the Locusts Ate

The first year tasted sweet, late spring sunsets, and crisp. It crunched beneath our wings, a pebble in giants’ hands. The second year almost as sweet, the first candle lit to fill the darkness. It wasn’t our fault; we follow the wind. It wasn’t our fault; we need the desert to survive like you need your God. The third year crunched delicious, the last of your crops crumbling behind our feet. The fourth year, the dark overcame your homes, tasted burnt and tired, hopelessness like fruit wrapped in plastic. It wasn’t our fault; we followed the fire. We woke after the rain. We danced like warhorses, an army in perfect step until your stars shook from the sky, your faces became pale in terror, your sunlight and your dust tasted the same. It wasn’t our fault, sent for your repentance and our delight, in earthquakes caused by our jealous wings and the sound of quiet trembling from heaven, designated destruction for our bellies. The years became sour, and it wasn’t our fault. We followed the wind.

Plain

Plainly, I want to say that I adore the sound of eggs cooking in a skillet on a Saturday afternoon and this big blue dress, and there is a bubble burst of sunlight along my peripheral eyelashes, and I want to say that your confession shattered me like a glass vase on concrete, like all the daisies fell out and the water trickled through broken glass into a stream down the road and were forgotten, uncared for as you ran to escape the shattered sound you'd heard so many times. Plainly I want to say that I want to be the way the sun illuminates colors and makes them bright, I want to be like fresh, crisp morning winter air that greets your sleepy lungs, invigorating boost of day. And I want to be valuable like the sunset, undeniable purpose and beauty. And I want you to be the stars that clasp together the sky to keep night friendly, that keep the night beautiful so morning can rest. And I want you to be tall grass in the morning, greeted by the enthusiastic sunrise and dew. Plainly, I want to say that the years have been released and you can be the stars. I'll be the sunset.

Injustices

The systems are flawed. You can't take her away. She's ours now. We've welcomed her in. I deal with hard things in humor. In the past week, I've done this twice, and twice, it's been misunderstood. I deal with sad things in grumpiness. Sometimes I isolate myself. It seems easier to bear with The Killers and Balmorhea, curled in a circle on the bed or taking the neighbors' dog for a walk in the crisp air.

You can't take her away.

We race across the yard. She wins, of course. She promises me a picture, a bracelet.

The more you live, the more sadness there is. The more happiness and joy, too, but we tend to focus on the sad.

My Burt's bees chapstick is running out. My body decides at 10:23pm that now it wants some of that root beer.

I haven't had the chance to cry about it yet.

One week, it was the bad news of a friend, and now this. One thing after another and we have to cling to the joy in between. The donuts for breakfast, the walk with the dog, the family puppet show.

................................................................

Isaiah 9

I'm still writing poems about cauliflower.

I came here to write a story, but I wrote lists instead. Do you see the words I wrote in my notebook? purple, asylum, ice cream, universal. I hate good byes. When I am old, along with wearing purple, I will learn to paint. And I will paint oranges in wooden bowls illuminated by the sunlight. This day is supposed to be a feast. Full of sweet things and sturdy things, not sorrow. If I had girl I would name her Hazel because I think it is a strong name. I have poetry in my blood but I can’t get it out. I’m too afraid of what I’ll say. Or that it won’t sound like poetry at all. Or I’ll try too hard and it won’t sound like poetry at all.

How to (Not) Cook Cauliflower

The sun is setting. She sits in the grass under a most scraggly tree with ants crawling over her legs and children throwing dry grass in her hair. A man still mostly boy and his friend stands before her, tosses a bag of soggy cauliflower in her direction. A question for you, he says. How to cook this vegetable. Boil it, she says, not so hard. The translation takes far too long and the snickering far too much. You can help me. You can sit on the couch and watch the news and I will cook it. For you. The sun is setting, bringing relief from this hot July day. No, she says, half a laugh tucked between her teeth and panic simmering slightly under her skin. The sun is setting and it is time to go inside. She stands up as the man with the hat with his friend stomps off, dejected. The sun is setting. She takes confident strides towards the building with the four doors to unlock. A strong giggle rises in her throat to be let loose in the echo-ey stairwell, because what else is there but laughter? The sun is setting and the story is told and retold. Boil it, she says, it’s not so hard. Apparently there are connotations, euphemisms, Apparently cauliflower means less honorable things, as if going with him to cook his soggy cauliflower at night could ever be honorable. She has been taught to trust no man. It is wise advice. The last sun rays slip behind the horizon, laughter echoing this room. Because what else is there to do, but laugh?

i'm watching sparse snow flurries fall through the steam floating out of my black tea.
i'm listening to the new testament in dari.
i have no motivation.
for three hours i've sat here and i don't know what i've done. no motivation.
if only my assignment was finding words in dari.
but it's not.

All I have

All I have is honesty.

I value people more than doing my work.
(I always get the work done, at odd hours here and there.)

Oh,
so
many
thoughts
today!