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Contents
Close to the Chest

They get tired,
who can blame them?
crumpled
like trash.

They get tired
of holding folded wings
and daily, they are weary.

Lives become carried
like purses, close to the chest,
heels strike the sidewalk
lonely
in the breathing dark.

It takes so little to live
-- small water for a flower --
so quick and so hard
the spirit's long travels.

It is the bones
that bear up hard
in the sagging face
that carry the survivor's
grace and weight.
Lovely -- the light
that still shines
in the eyes.
© COPYRIGHT 2015. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
  • Genevieve Freeman
  • Les Reed
  • Carolyn Reed
  • Darcy Reed
  • David Allen Reed
  • Blog
  • Ouji
  • that's just what you think
  • the girl who couldn
  • theodore
  • Flash Fiction
  • Facing Music
  • The Coat
  • Sorry Sweetheart
  • The Listener
  • Resistance
  • Poetry by Carolyn Reed
  • Emblematic
  • Poetalk
  • Ensenada
  • Maternity
  • Mother's Day
  • Union Station
  • Having Never Flown
  • William from the res
  • To the Forest
  • Cuneiform
  • The House of Tofu
  • The Bubble Angel