The literary magazine of Hagerstown Community College
Your presence is an
Elevator shaft
I can’t stop falling
Through–
I thought I was
With thoughts of you
Creeping misery
Won’t let me sleep
If I could grow wings
I wouldn’t be me
Losing my peace,
Loving my grief
Living a nightmare
Less than a dream
Never enough
Said with a shrug
Dare to wake up
Breathing this drug
I can’t climb away
My mind turns to mud
Forever I’ll stay
By draining my blood
White egg, brown egg, speckled egg, blue egg
Which egg is better on the inside?
Does one egg make you taller?
Or fatter? Smarter? Duller?
Could it be that two of them are tied?
Speckled egg, blue egg, true egg, new egg
Which egg is jealous of the other?
Do speckled eggs hate blue
For their evenness of hue?
Or do they view each other as a brother?
White egg, brown egg, town egg, clown egg
Why has one of these eggs been oppressed?
One egg boasts the test of time
One egg’s made it through a climb
So which of these considers themselves best?
Prize egg, wise egg, size egg, buys egg
If you crack them open what’s inside?
Identical design
In your egg and in mine
Remove the shell and all is simplified.
Bridges are meant to be crossed
Like t’s,
Not dotted like i’s,
Nor like lines on a map;
The borderlines that separate
You and I.
Bridges are built, burned,
Famed, scorned,
Named, claimed, renamed,
And more.
Like great concrete walls.
Except walls disconnect, separate.
Their only reconnection through a gate.
But gates are unfriendly,
With “work will make you free” in iron
Cast above their spindling frames.
Graffiti on the nearby walls surrounding,
With my family on the east side,
Yours on the west,
With no one the worst
Or best.
But bridges are friendly,
Like open arms, open hands,
Making family from different lands,
From different people of all makes,
All models,
Like cars,
Built for the same purpose:
For function and for luxury.
My culture is a function,
And so is yours.
My culture shows you how I am
Who I am
And why I am that way,
And so does yours.
My freedom is a luxury.
I was born here with my rights intact,
And you came here to get yours back.
Inalienable rights, undeniable rights,
Born with and carried by us from
The moment of conception,
Of birth,
Of great conscious Life.
My culture is my bridge to yours.
With no graffiti walls, no great iron gates,
No words of hate,
Just love, acceptance,
And open arms welcoming
You.
In the early afternoon
if I am home
most often,
I’m on the front porch.
I sit there and I hope
that he will walk by.
Often he does,
on his way to work,
and I cherish those few moments.
Even though
he won’t talk to me,
he no longer knows
the strange old guy sitting there.
He only knows what he’s been told.
Years ago, he knew me well.
I took him everywhere I went,
my little partner,
and he looked up to me then
with such love in his little eyes.
Now I watch him passing
and I wonder,
can he feel the love I hold
for him,
or the pride that I have
in him?
The distance is so very small, but
we are separated by the years.
He goes by and my eyes follow
and as he gets farther down the road
he becomes smaller and smaller
in my watery eyes,
shrinking,
as did his knowledge of me
and his fondness for me
as the time passed.
Then he is gone from my sight
and I whisper to myself
I love you
son.
-22 April 2016
My dad says I’m a clumsy driver. I swerve, zig-zag, misdirect my focus.
Can’t concentrate on the yellow line, on the white line, the in between.
Yes, I’m a terrible driver, but I don’t do any better on foot.
I trip, I fall, I get up, repeat.
He glides, moves side-to-side gently, tenderly.
He weaves in and out of traffic.
Jams that I stumble through he floats through unfazed.
“Get yourself together” he says.
“Get me a drink” I slur.
“I’m done” he insists.
“Please, I’ll change” I plea.
The whiskey passes my lips to my tongue.
Past my tongue to my throat.
Down my throat into my stomach.
The acid is eating away at the lining.
I can feel the flames licking my insides.
Ignite. Scorch. Blaze.
The water rocks back and forth against the pearly bowl.
I stare into the white abyss willing the raw burn in my stomach to relax.
“Relax” he whispers.
“I’m sorry” I cry.
I’m a drunken mess, alone and dying.
“But you’re not alone” he promises.
I am though, because he can’t keep me.
He won’t keep me.
The clouds he rides on don’t hold the thunder I possess.
He carries sunshine and deep breaths of air.
My lightning strikes, unpredictable.
The cracks deafening.
“Get yourself together” he says.
But I can’t because I’m a drunken mess,
Lovely and unattainable.
I love you like hymnals and rainstorms
like forgive and let live
like poison pills
giving me the chills
like aftershocks
and forget me knots
loving me still
baby you and me
go together like
disco and lemonade
and we remind me a bit of
horseshoes and hand grenades
because almost always counts
Foot to sand, I remember
those days of long nights
and glorious days, filled with memories.
Of a person on the turf
swept to me, by the Caspian Sea.
To fill my world with new adventures.
Each getting better by every turn
hand to hand, foot to sand,
hopping over broken clam shells,
other little things we could explore, but don’t.
Watching the sun descend the horizon
we dive, the colors of the coral
exploding in our lives down here.
Above the glistening wonders
our lives continue up there,
now above us in the stars.
He pulls me against the current,
closer, closer, until I’m there.
The secret of him, told in no words,
but that dive told me everything.