 Heather is a hill born Kentucky girl living down south in Mississippi. She is a minister's wife and mother of two sons, working toward the publication of her first novel. She is represented by Peter Knapp of New Leaf Literary. Her credits include: The Mom Egg, Vine Leaves Literary, Tipton Poetry Journal, Drunk Monkeys, Mothers Always Write, and the Young Adult Review Network. Sea Flat bathtub sea nipples and knees sunken volcanoes Polynesian islands the sound of drumbeat steady as the natives lullaby me to sleep, palms suspended, thoughts suspended, life upended, worry drowned, as I sink down into my pores and know myself in you. Dear Son It is early. I am not awake. Dear Son, this is why we close the windows. The is why we lock the doors. A person can feel like a prison. I’ve been out a lot this week. I’d like to curl up, curl in, close out the world. Dear Son, this is why we draw the blinds. The joy radiating from you is a million times brighter than the light from the windows. Everything is heavy. My soul is breaking. A person can feel like an answer. I’m best at tragedy and grief. Dear Son, this is why we love our mothers. They wake up and remake the world. Curl The dark-haired girl that curled inside herself; She was unwilling to be born this way. The boy with the evil smile pushed. He tried to force her spine to bend and crack. She was unwilling to be born this way. Her fingers were white against brown pages. He tried to force her spine to bend and crack. She stared at blurring words, did not look up. Her fingers were white against brown pages. Lines of story wove for her a soft cocoon. She stared at blurring words, did not look up. And she grew her soul into a frightening curve. Lines of story wove for her a soft cocoon. The boy with the evil smile pushed. And she grew her soul into a frightening curve; The dark-haired girl that curled inside herself.
0 Comments
|
ArchivesCategories
All
|
RSS Feed
