A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. ~Robert Frost~ Click To Tweet
By Alyssa Trivett
03/02/2018
Snow Drift
I half-flutter like a bird with a broken wing,
caught in a spider web,
sinking in quicksand.
Any move or turn cauterizes the underbelly.
I kick sand in my enemy’s face,
swoop myself up,
and laugh victoriously,
video-game like.
Almost.
Swollen
Midnight blue, purples, and
Van Gogh yellow paint splotches
form on the arm and abdomen;
they’re drunk,
gym class sliding with one another.
Playing connect-the-dots,
over skin.
Bruise constellations,
the daily shots plagued you with them.
Alyssa Trivett
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These are moving. The first one beautifully descriptive and the second one heart wrenching in its truth. Thank you for sharing.
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