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2 Poems by Chandra Dickson |
Remembering When He Passed It was a Sunday night that I called out for you. The power line silhouette lit up across the shrouded stars. In the silence of Tonganoxie I tried to control the volume of my life, so the rain was not so loud as it came down around me, and I could hear the power in your voice the moment you sucked the breath out of me through the receiver and my heart sank hard hardly noticing the fall. When you said bitter softly those things you had wanted to remain hidden in the dust covered chest in the barn that now only holds ghosts of hay and souls of barn animals, since it's been filled with hearts of worn tin pans, the mentality of old clothes, abandoned pictures, and discarded relics existing on the dirt floor. While the hole ridden roof lets the sun in so they gray and decay like he will in his coffin, that he never said a word about me, His child, who grew like a weed faster than the crops in the ground. Silence Flicking june bugs off your shirt while your head lays drunkenly in my lap. I listen to you speak while descending into my own private stash of dizzy moments, mixed in with breathless mistakes of dares taken when I least expected the outcomes to be so great. My toes tingle and curl around the coolness of the grass, and the heaviness of pleasure weighs down the burdens of being alive against my chest, and the sky cries down stars.
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