A Stone Lion

Photograph donated by photographer Timothy Barash

A stone lion, weeping painted tears,

beneath a two-dimensioned heart.

His howls can almost reach my ears.

I could forget he’s just a work of art.

See the rage and horror in those eyes?

Were his cubs killed? His whole pride?

Who did this? Who did he despise,

enough to harden everything inside?

This noble creature’s tearful loss,

the grief of life collecting dust,

is an illusion, sealed in gloss.

None if it is more real than just

a stone lion, weeping painted tears,
beneath a two-dimensioned heart.

Guilt

Illustration is "Blood" by Amy Kaufman

The sticky memory of my sin

clings to my sullied hands.

Death is drying on my skin--

--because I obeyed commands.

It was not my fault; it was not!

I ended what others had begun.

There is peace—peace this blood bought!

I did what needed to be done;

I took my knives and did my part.

There is no shame. There is no shame!

But I will never, ever be the same,

not in the deepest corners of my heart.

Sixty Years

Sixty years, sixty years, how long will that last?

The horizon of my future breaks so near,

and this curving path rolls so far past,

an eternity of time, a road paved with fear.

I march forward slowly, faking calm.

I try to touch the unknown and hug it tight

like a child reaching upwards in the night,

hoping to feel dark velvet on her palm;

and so of course, the disappointment stings.

I must keep marching anyway, dragged along,

by love and kindness, mother’s words, a lover’s song,

pulling gently like a puppet’s golden strings.

But sixty years, years without hope or guiding maps…

Will I make it all that way? Or will I just collapse?

It Follows

I sternly order it away.

“You are not welcome here.

No longer. You must leave.”

It seems to disappear,

but that is only to deceive.

Then it howls, loud and clear

and settled in to stay.

I pace from room to room,

to catch the moment just before

it finds my hiding-place

and squeezes through the door.

It settles in every space

every closet, every drawer

like dust settles in a tomb.

I walk away, it follows.

I try to burn it out of sight.

Neither the softest colored glows,

nor the harshest blinding white

can murder all the shadows;

so everywhere, in every light,

it finds the dark, and grows.

Heroes

Why do heroes leave their homes,

put down their pens, pick up their swords

and go to where the evil roams?

Do they chase justice or rewards?

When we seek the darkest places

and peer into the murkiest of pools,

are we really looking for beasts and ghouls,
or just our own reflected faces?

Getting Caught

Photograph lovingly donated by my sister

WHAT?

I didn’t do anything!

The fabric attacked me first!

You should have been here, giant creature. The sewing project you worked on for three hours flew off the table and grabbed me. It tried to strangle me with its ribbon tentacles! 

You can’t blame me for defending myself!

I had a very good reason to enter your forbidden sewing room. I….um…I heard a crying baby and came in to comfort the baby! Don’t you want me to comfort babies, heartless human?

Well, no, I didn’t find a crying baby in here….

No, I have no idea where the sound came from. Oh, yes! I know! The sewing project made a crying baby noise to lure me in here! Your sewing project lured me into your forbidden room so it could try to kill me.

I'm clearly the victim here. 

No, I’m not lying.

I’m not lying, I swear!

Prison Log

Dear Diary,

My imprisonment continues.

The smaller of the two giants still tortures me, picking me up, moving me around, and—worst of all!—denying me my right to eat all the fishes, butter and cream in this place. I bite her as hard as I can but to no avail.

The larger of the two giants still mostly ignores me. When he’s awake, he sometimes looks at me threateningly and says incomprehensible things about me to the other giant. When he’s asleep, I use him the way nature intended those creatures to be used: as bed-warmers.

Photograph taken by my sister Emily.

It’s those sorts of little comforts that keep me going, and sustain my hope that one day I will finally break free when the giants forget to close the front door.

Really, the décor is as colorful as one could hope for in a prison, even if it is too painfully tacky to my sophisticated tastes. Still, the food is passible.

I must savor all the opportunities to enjoy myself. I will continue pretending to be affectionate until the giants let down their guard, at which point I ferociously bite their unsuspecting hands. That one never gets old. Just the thought of it warms me.

Since I’m imprisoned, I have nothing but time. I may as well stop to smell the roses.

Photograph taken by my sister Emily.