Happy Tuesday, everybody. How's your week been so far? Hopefully you are all doing a little better than we are this week. This stomach virus, whatever it is, seems intent on sticking around a while longer, and let me tell ya, it is really kicking my butt! We go through our fair share of sickness here, but this one is one of the worst I've experienced in a long while. Ugh.
Anyway, I tried to muster up the strength to get crafty today, but the only thing I can do comfortably for any length of time is to sit very still. Having the laptop on my lap (that always sounds redundant, doesn't it?) actually helps because the warmth works like a heating pad on my poor crampy tummy. I discovered this about an hour ago. If I had realized this previously, I could have spent an entire day online guilt-free! Good thing I can't reach my debit card from here. My long-suffering hubby would NOT be pleased. ;o)
So, instead, I worked some more on my poem. I'm still not sure it's quite right, but I'm going to share it with you anyway. What inspired it was this fantastic list of verbs that my friend Belinda posted on her wonderful blog Nordicblogger http://nordicblogger.blogspot.com/2010/02/verbs.html and the famous quote by Anton Chekov, "Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass." I started thinking about what kind of person might be in that setting, which got me wondering about homelessness. And not just homelessness, but what it must feel like to be young and female and homeless for the first time. Maybe she fled an abusive relationship. Maybe she's a stranger in a strange town who just lost everything. I don't know her situation, but I know she spoke to me. And this was the result.
She gapes up at the evening sky
Insidious clouds push their way toward the moon.
Jostling it around like some street gang
Bent on teaching it a lesson.
The moon grapples,
To wriggle free of their sticky fingers,
Hold its position
Fill its lungs with one last deep breath
The frenzied vapors nip at it, then swallow it whole.
Tiny stars gasp and shrink into themselves,
Lest they, too, be consumed.
No light above to guide her.
The cold metal bench at her back
Bites through the layers that hide her shape
Keep her safe
Ears trained to every inch of the night
The shatter of glass against pavement startles
Another empty bites the dust.
Her heart flutters against her rib cage
The rusty tang of fear upon her tongue
She knows there are others out here like her
Not like her
Shapes in the dark
She will not become accustomed
To the sounds of the night
To the abandoned heavens
To the park bench
She will not learn their names,
These reticent ghosts
Faceless by night, faceless by day.
This is her temporary home.