New poems
by Kaitlyn Park

 

 

 

Milk Glass

 

Nan left the milk glass
on the table, emptied,
the dusty table I looked
at all my life, polished
clean, now full of grime

 

I wanted to help her, God
knows I did, but I only had
my two hands and a life
full of youthful nothing, all
energy spinning a circle and
going nowhere

 

When we loaded up her things
I thought about how unfair it was
that I had no healing power, that
I could barely offer her words
in those final days.

 

 

 

Slavery

 

I don't understand it, but I know

I should

 

Last night, I dreamed that they

wanted me, that powerful hands

reached for me and wanted to drag

me back into a cage

 

How I ran for the door my mind

created, how I hopped in the car,

checking over my shoulder, and

that's still just a shadow of the real

horror that was, not that long ago.

 

 

 

 

Lost Road

 

The GPS is not working

because we are too far removed

from the rest of the world,

and the baby is crying

 

We don't even have a baby, I'm

talking about myself, I guess,

because I remember the sound

of my whine and now pity you

 

We drove bass-ackwards all over

and never found or destination,

finally seeing the welcome sight

of a few dotting lights, and I never

rejoiced at the sight of a Denny's

so much in all my life.

 

 

 

 

Good Morning Baby

 

I hear the bed creaking, which

tells me you're awake, even when

you aren't here

 

I go sniffing for you in the middle

of the night, reaching and not finding

but occasionally you are there

 

That's a welcome moment in my life

and I don't want to miss those times,

want to collect them and pile them up

 

Comforts in a far corner of the room

for the huddle up in.

 

 

 

 

Snorrible

 

I know, I know, on the outside

I look like a ballerina. 

The doctor tells me I'm too small.

 

I should gain some weight, but

the pounds of ice cream don't seem

to help.  I'm sure it will catch up.

 

In spite of my petite being, you

should hear me snoring.  I recorded

it once, like the secret weapon, like

the late-night sneak attack.

Rate this poetry.

Copyright is reserved by the author. Please do not reproduce any part of this article without consent.