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Literature Text
Rebecca—
this is my name with the shades
rolled up, body exposed to the sun,
a simple word that I carry
like a badge or a cross or a scar.
It is my name
dripping from my lips like poetry,
hiding inside colors and pictures,
stories and music.
It's my name with the lights off,
me sitting in the middle of the room
with no one to say it,
arms crossed over my ribcage,
forehead on my knees,
shapes twisting behind my eyelids.
Rebecca—
this is my name burrowed in
the obscurity of language,
building bridges and raising walls.
It's my name spoken
through cigarette smoke and slurred voices,
caught up in an embrace,
wandering aimlessly
until it is lifted off the ground and held,
or until some kind soul
nurtures it and then gives it back,
whispering in my ear—
Rebecca
this is my name with the shades
rolled up, body exposed to the sun,
a simple word that I carry
like a badge or a cross or a scar.
It is my name
dripping from my lips like poetry,
hiding inside colors and pictures,
stories and music.
It's my name with the lights off,
me sitting in the middle of the room
with no one to say it,
arms crossed over my ribcage,
forehead on my knees,
shapes twisting behind my eyelids.
Rebecca—
this is my name burrowed in
the obscurity of language,
building bridges and raising walls.
It's my name spoken
through cigarette smoke and slurred voices,
caught up in an embrace,
wandering aimlessly
until it is lifted off the ground and held,
or until some kind soul
nurtures it and then gives it back,
whispering in my ear—
Rebecca
Literature
Rebecca
The rustle of her ballgown,
her footsteps in the hall,
the scent of white azalea
says Rebecca's come to call.
She lingers in the valley,
and on the twilit stair;
she drifts unseen and silent,
but I know Rebecca's there.
She was in the watching portraits -
she haunted me, and then
she danced in the inferno
with a whispered Je reviens...
Literature
in the blink of an eye
she was born on a day when
tectonic plates were crashing against each other
and i think that’s a good metaphor for her:
she was always the kind of person who fought
battles, even ones she couldn’t win.
she was a mess of moments she should have
taken seriously and too many times she tried
to laugh off the pain.
i learned how to care about other people
too much by watching her.
diagnosed as a grenade, she told me one day,
sure to blow up in someone’s face.
you’re going to be fine, i told her.
just let me leave, she said and
i couldn’t.
i wish i had, but i couldn’t,
not until she kicked and screamed her
Literature
aubrey
You are a three-day lightning storm
that leaves only plastic bags and stray dogs
flitting through the river runway streets.
You are dark purple and blue cacophonies,
searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils,
and seams bursting from blistering electricity—
I am not afraid of you.
My father has whirling weatherveins too,
but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails;
typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser.
She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshine
clenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, and
more importantly, she will make you feel okay.
You deserve okay.
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Lots of metaphor and imagery here.
And my name really is Rebecca. (Finally decided to let that be known.
)
And my name really is Rebecca. (Finally decided to let that be known.
) © 2012 - 2024 QuirkyCuriousBex
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Steve 
Rebecca.
Rebecca.