© Knot Magazine. Kristen D. Scott. All Rights Reserved 

2014-2020 No images, or words may be taken from this site 

without permission from Knot Magazine and the artists included. 

 

Emalisa Rose

The separation of sisters

 

Suddenly, south of the sycamore

the wrens weave in sync

though this open air theatre.

 

And I wish it would thunderstorm

to cover the tears I had sworn, never

to shed for you.

 

Harkening hyacinths, the shy side

of Springtime, soothing my eyes

as I’m grateful that now is the time

when the flowers bloom.

 

Had it been Winter, such grief would

be magnified, even more so, by the

flat lines of February.

 

Dirt to the ground, I place stones as

the sparrows sing, reciting last prayers

in the verse of the mother country,

regretting I never apologized.

Pink lullaby baby

 

25 shades of pink on

the color chart; I’d walk

around with paint chips

for 8 plus months until

I’d decided - bubblegum

or ballet slipper blush

to fill your walls.

 

You screamed those first

few weeks. I didn’t know what

else to do but feed you, after

ruling out the sticking safety

pin and other common culprits.

 

We drowned in pink

slipping suns, marquise

moons, would greet us

 

pale, exhausted, i

wished pink birds, to

come sing us a lullaby.

How to receive bad news

 

Not after midnight

and not during Winter

particularly when snows

hit the marrow.

 

Maybe mid-morning

after some camomile,

 

preferably Spring

when there’s songs in the air

intercepting the thud

you’ve expected, that stayed

locked in the clouds for a while.

 

And here it comes - terse, unforgiving -

that phone call you’ve dreaded

has finally arrived.

How mine got caught

 

Some brush their teeth again and

discover the toothbrush. Others dress

with aplomb, in a style that would merit

a king, or a carnival barker.

 

Some take the car, park at a park and

ride; hop in an Uber off to the getaway -

a place where the weeds grow the lonely,

sneaking in with their counterpart to a

dim room, without view, where the toilet

is talking, miles from suburbia.

 

Some are just dimwits, leaving open their

laptop, unaware that the spouse will appear

out of nowhere to open the cupboard and

look for some Tylenol, as he writes some

hot drabble to his 3AM mistress.

 

I caught mine through his stepbrother, during

some pillow talk on our Tuesday night

rendezvous, while my husband worked overtime.

We paid off the mortgage

 

The roof is still leaking

as is the chatterbox toilet

the warped wooden blinds

and the deep scratched linoleum

the refinished dining room

the plants and the silverware

the dishes for 8, when there’s

only the 2 of us, the photos

of family hung on the fresh

painted wall -

 

the black marks that you

penciled on closet doors, as you

charted the growth of the kids -

 

and those 3 standing sycamores

30 years later, where we planted

a circle of sunflowers.

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame and doll making. She volunteers in animal rescue. Living by a beach town, provides much of the inspiration for her art. Some of her poems have appeared in Writing in a Woman's Journal, Rat's Ass Review, Red Wolf Journal and other fine journals.