Talking to the Sky

-For Laura Jean Sluder

My mother had a child a year before me. She was full-term and died the day she was due. Growing up, I often pretended that she was with me. When I was 18, I wrote a poem about her.

1.

My breath escapes my chest too quickly

For me to keep up. Pillows of clouds

press on me, pushing me closer. I am only seven.

I wish for time to undo the truth.

She was an infant,

Hardly plucked from the womb

and buried already.

The grass expands all around me,

stick straight,

like a fringe wall, and I talk to the sky.

Our private playground.

 

2.

I grew up the way life intends.

She grew up with me, but she’d never know.

I’m 18 now, I visit her grave

On her birthday. All around us; thick,

thick rosebushes bloomed,

spreading their petals like morose lyrics.

These are our protectors.

Her grave is flawless.

I lay flowers on the petite marble square.

She should be eating cake today.

She should be doing many things today.

The sky called to me in a silent song.

Today was her birthday,

but she would never know.

 

3.

It is still up there, our private playground.

It is still attached to a wisp

of a cloud, floating, floating.

Sometimes I can see above the swings,

Two little girls separated

before they even knew

one another.

Still, the vacancy is there,

clapping in my ears.

The stars give her an ethereal

body and suddenly the sky seems so painless.

She would be beautiful tonight.

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Rhythm

The topic of the Daily Post for today is Rhthym.

Rhythm is important. We all have our own rhythm. It shows in our writing. I studied rhythm and meter. Poetry is made up of these. Trying to force rhythm is hard. Writing this is hard. It’s easier to follow your natural flow. This feels awkward.

It’s actually really hard to write in short sentences like that. To me, short sentences make me feel almost panicked, like everything is rushed and cut too short. Overly long sentences can seem either like rambling or like way too much detail.

I actually know two people who talk in those two extremes. Honestly, there are times it drives me crazy. My friend, she is always talking so fast and stopping short of what she was saying. It’s hard to keep up with her at times. She’ll call me up and say, “Hi! I saw this movie. It was really good. You should watch it. I think it’s called “Some movie.” So and so also loved it. Are you gonna see it?” Meanwhile, I’m still trying to process everything she just said.

Whereas my Mother, she goes into detail about every last thing. It’s maddening. A phone call from her sounds like, ” I was watering my plants the other day and I noticed this leaf that was much lighter green than any of the other leaves so leaned in to get a better look at it, and I swear to god, a bee came zooming out from somewhere inside the pot and nearly gave me a heart attack.” She will squeeze and entire story into one sentence.

For them, it sounds normal. I suppose I probably write somewhere in the middle. When I write prose, I honestly don’t pay attention to it until I revise. Only then, I’ll focus on the rhythm and length of my sentences. When I write poetry, I do pay a lot more attention to my lines and sentences.

Hmm, I feel like this post got away from me.

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