Saturday, November 13, 2010

A poem with no name. Yet.

she was born beside graves of crisp white sheets
bleached too many times to count,
and beds that could never stay warm long.

she learned to talk listening to footsteps that couldn’t remember
how to hold onto the floor,
under lights that blinked in urgent red whispers.

there were never any songs sung, not
to her, but as she got older
she learned to make her own,
molded from the smiles that echoed out of her scratchy TV.

she swirled words under her tongue
and hid them there,
waited for the day They would come one last time,
wearing cartoon scrub shirts and sudden, sudden smiles--
take out her tubes and wires
take off her bandages
and say, Be Free.

she saved her songs for running in the bright yellow
leaves she could see falling from her window.

but, whenever They came, Their palms
clutched no key, no quick happy chance
of a drifting cloud dancing dream, just rain,
coloring books stained with fingerprints, and I’m Sorry.


  1. She's in captivity. That's all I got. :) <3 Hahahahaha.

    I like your adjectives!!!! <3

  2. it's not captivity exactly.. it's a hospital. ahhhh I need to make it more obvious, I guess, though I can't figure out how without just stating it. haha I really suck, don't I?

  3. OK- so I totally dig this. wow. first part- "bleached too many times to count." (hospital sheets) this is so good ash- I love the second stanza!!! great descriptions!!! "under lights that blinked in urgent red whispers!!!" it captures the quiet urgency of a hospital- excellent

    poor little baby girl

    this is really excellent!

  4. It was wonderful...I caught onto the Hospital setting right away

  5. Beautiful, Ashley. I love the imagery.

  6. comment. I really like it. I'm not entirely sure what it means but I don't think I necessarily have to. It's beautiful on it's own. See, I can comment :P