POETRY / PROSE
CREATIVE WRITING
A Raven’s Kiss (Published by Drake's Literary Magazine)
My cold body garnered each and every punch.
The beating, the pounding, the whipping.
My blood to the floor, dripping.
My blood to the floor, dripping.
In your presence, I stood void of bliss.
But yet bestowed upon me was your raven’s kiss.
But yet bestowed upon me was your raven’s kiss.
Your pallid wings encircled my skin,
tearing at my heart, my soul, from within
Your sadistic claws,
an unrelentless blade.
My life, the pitiless price to be paid.
an unrelentless blade.
My life, the pitiless price to be paid.
Each day, I waited,
consumed with fear of death.
consumed with fear of death.
Another slow, slow quavering breath.
I was your prisoner.
The devil had snagged me.
The devil had snagged me.
Your hand pulled harder, harder,
a grasp I could not flee.
Yet your desperate eyes told another story.
Wet with soggy tears,
three words escaped your lips,
three words escaped your lips,
reincarnating all my fears.
And a dark frost hung over my heart,
for I knew this raven’s kiss
would just be the start.
--
To Live in This World
Starting with a line from Mary Oliver
Starting with a line from Mary Oliver
To live in this world,
there must be no doubt of oneself.
Or the mind enters the hinterland,
And the body becomes a single goldfish
in a goldfish bowl
swimming in wide circles.
Fogged glass
numbs the pain,
but blurs the ocean.
And the ocean’s wide to set sail,
to set sail.
--
The Screams of Silence
Tomorrow the promise of spring will adorn the boy in golden ribbons, and he dances around the room. But today winter laughs at his gaiety. Familiar footsteps near the door are an elegy to him, a sound of a violin bow rubbing loudly against blistered skin. The cadence of the tune is frightening to the boy.
The door opens, and the hiss of the wind seeping in seems to serenade him. Gelid winds delve into his exposed body. The sun sinks low behind the icy horizon, and the room goes dark. The boy’s dancing ceases, and he darts behind a curtain, the lucent outlining melting into his olive skin.
He knows to stay hidden. Even when the croaks and cries of doddery wood under his feet are heard with the symphony of his long, puffed breaths, the boy remains still, and closes his eyes.
The door closes, and a man enters.
Silence screams at the boy from behind the gauzy veil. The ambience becomes blurred movements, precise, but without the plainsong.
Silence speaks in red roses.
His heart hammers away propitious thoughts,
Blood thumps in his ears like a deafening crescendo. He can feel his father’s eyes in the room.
The boy moves so quietly, the murmur of discarded cigarette ashes muffling his soft steps opposite the door.
The boy had become so thin, silken sheets like arms, strapping his body to the wall, so as to hold in the warmth the man’s presence had seeped from his body.
The boy was shaking. He knew the promise of spring would be unkept. Suddenly the man turned.
The room’s eerie silence muffled the boy’s screams.
The violinist bowed, and the audience cried.
