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 Running By Your House On a Saturday by Lippi Zaner anywhere but here by Audrey Hardwick Zion by Charles Still My Dawg by Torrence Where is My Mom by Nicholas Bateman EXHALE by Regina Stone submit a poem for next month's edition go to current edition  |
Running By Your House On a Saturday by Lippi Zaner Early one morning I pull on my nice shoes and drag myself out to the concrete. My feet, unused for weeks, sting and my ankles crack and pop. Still, I push myself forward. The world is in slow motion as I press my toes into the asphalt. The air cuts my skin and turns my flesh numb. I soon realize I cannot feel my fingers, my face, my toes. It has been months since I passed by your home, years since I've been through this neighborhood. I pass by houses asleep to the world, with tiny lights glimmering from upstairs windows. Small pieces of the life that exists behind closed doors. It is still dark, but at the horizon I can see the sun bravely peeking into the city. The grass, frosted from freezing winter air, crunches under my feet and the steady thud thud of my shoes against the ground lulls me into a strange trance. I suddenly wonder if I am running to something or away from you. I pass by your house. In your window is a Christmas tree, (a nostalgic piece of the year gone by) it is all gaudy and neons. You act like you don't see me, but I can tell you have witnessed my passing. Your eyes gleam like the lights, and abruptly I wonder if I imagined everything that has happened. I push forward, away from your house. It reminds me too much of gingerbread and hot cocoa. The sight of you brings a dull pain to my heart. And here I was thinking I was numb. I have not come by in weeks in hopes you'd note my absence, imagining me bloated and crying, immobile in my bed eating Hagen Daaz and cheap assorted chocolates out of the box. I know people are watching me run by. The strange girl in late winter, her nose bright red and her breath forming droplets in the atmosphere. I can see them shaking their heads as I rush by their cars, breathing in their carbon monoxide while they drink cups of coffee and crystalline, sugary doughnuts with their greasy fingertips. Some of these houses are empty. Their windows gaze out into the world, I glance inside but there's nothing there to see. I wish your home was like that, how I wish that there was nothing here to run from, how i wish you would just talk to me. |
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