March 8, 2024.
held steady by two concrete blocks
And I stare at the two tombstones
Situated side by side
“Hey mama, hey sis”, I say aloud
My eyes always jerk backwards to make sure it’s just us
“Wish we could stop meeting like this,
Wish I could be next to ‘yuns in the ground”
But I can hear them now - almost
I can imagine the words but I can’t fathom the sound
Odd, I guess - can’t really remember my mom’s voice
Until I hear an old recording and then I break down
It’s familiar but it’s foreign
Sometimes I even look at photographs and
I’m not entirely sure if I just made her up,
Some sort of imaginary friend I’m scared to mention
I pick dandelions there in the Spring
Yellow was my sister’s favorite color, which was funny,
Because she mostly wore black
I guess I’m trying to give color to her death
I pick up the litter that people throw
When they’re drinking at these horse shows
And throw beer bottles over the edge of the road
Not realizing there’s a graveyard below
And I pick up the fake flowers that have
Crawled off from the strong winds
Just covered in dirt and rolly pollies
That I confide in like friends
Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 56 times
Written on 2024-03-08 at 18:49
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hey mama - hey sis
I sit on a damp piece of woodheld steady by two concrete blocks
And I stare at the two tombstones
Situated side by side
“Hey mama, hey sis”, I say aloud
My eyes always jerk backwards to make sure it’s just us
“Wish we could stop meeting like this,
Wish I could be next to ‘yuns in the ground”
But I can hear them now - almost
I can imagine the words but I can’t fathom the sound
Odd, I guess - can’t really remember my mom’s voice
Until I hear an old recording and then I break down
It’s familiar but it’s foreign
Sometimes I even look at photographs and
I’m not entirely sure if I just made her up,
Some sort of imaginary friend I’m scared to mention
I pick dandelions there in the Spring
Yellow was my sister’s favorite color, which was funny,
Because she mostly wore black
I guess I’m trying to give color to her death
I pick up the litter that people throw
When they’re drinking at these horse shows
And throw beer bottles over the edge of the road
Not realizing there’s a graveyard below
And I pick up the fake flowers that have
Crawled off from the strong winds
Just covered in dirt and rolly pollies
That I confide in like friends
Poetry by aidan haskel
Read 56 times
Written on 2024-03-08 at 18:49
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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