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.
after some camomile,
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.