In that former innocence
a second sun bloomed
in my heart, and I
tucked dreams
and hopes
within my small fist
a moth within-
I held it
tense,
in careful regard.
Sometimes
I would tear, slightly
a ghostly wing
having
no space
in a hand to
move:
I shook or would
startle.
And so I began
when it was night
and I could hear the
urgency silenced
day-to-day
to still squirrel away
each fold of brain, the
tender stomach
delicate bones of a toe/
all beneath my pillow
where I would remember
whenever
I could rest
and today, there
I hold my hand
in sleep, reaching
feeling
something
alive
in my hands.
Author: Stephanie McManus
Poetry described as whimsical, daring and perceptive: my writing tends to reflect on life experience and human nature. I come from a humanist point-of-view with influences from non-theistic Christian and Buddhist philosophy.
http://ehlersdanloscontemplations.wordpress.com/ - a support to others living with chronic illness and Ehlers-danlos Syndrome.
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paper crane prayer
Blooming in dark alleys these bullets called innocence: children who discover the world sting my eyes these bullets called innocence pepper on the page sting my eyes and they are wet like my father’s when reading, The Little Prince and they are wet between the pages when reading, The Little Prince and I am riddled with responsibility between the pages a crumpled paper crane, a bookmark and I am riddled with responsibility leaning between pages now a pause a crumpled paper crane, a bookmark this tired from saving the world leaning between pages now a pause thinking what kind of story is as good as: this tired from saving the world and knowing/ the beauty of night jasmine thinking what kind of story is as good as: children who discover the world not knowing the beauty is them, blooming in dark alleys.
athena
I will build a bridge
when it is dark
and you cannot see
the mark of your survival
to remind you- take
the birds broken
at your feet where
they rest and sing
to them, humming
in small beaks a song
if you think
they no longer
can hear.
Remember the trophies
we shattered in the dumpster
that night they came in the
mail? – my sadness,
I will hold a fist
to you and pound
until the dirt lifts.
On the night they died and
took truths from which
you were sculpted- I
scaffold the mind in memory
balance upon broken strands
of silk like a spider, and
find the center/
let us read a tale
I saw between the stars
scripting us- it was
just as true
as this tragedy
and build a bridge
of broken trophies and
birds’ wings between
one story and the next.
a moment, still
Seven years ago I lived in the mist and rain of the Olympic Peninsula to walk where wild things walked and lay upon the moss though a spider sunk into my soft stomach. It only hurt momentarily, and regardless, it is never safe to be where it seems safest, where lightning would never touch, waves, could never crash in the long dark of winter- never the crackling cold the moment-stilled heart though days pass. Truth is my hair has been standing on end since I was born from the shock but I comb it smooth and lay across another’s shoulder like a cloak and walking again into the quiet of the Cascades or the Hoh maybe I will find a big, black bear and not be reminded how any moment the sky may fall like hers did unexpected and violent, maybe she was afraid, I keep wondering. I, am sharp flint of ebon eye facing bear, am rock of trembling, St. Helens/ could blow could sleep instead, for awhile peaceful as flowers grow bright upon the back. I think of my tree that is only memory now, how Magdalena strong and twisted could lean into the cold and wild storms, how memory is the willowy heart/ a captured softness to put in a box with her gray eyes and my father’s calloused hands.
magdalena
I ran away
to North Carolina
after my father died,
rented an apartment and
wore these black boots,
dyed my pretty pink hair
back to brown, and
got a job at a pet store
during the recession.
I was enchanted by the fireplace
that would warm me and my guy
in the bare-limbed winters and
it was by a battleground we
walked with our dog
forested with trees
and unmarked graves.
I would leave often on my own
The Violent Femmes playing
on my headphones
something about
wanting to be sedated,
and I found this massive,
gnarled tree
apart from the rest,
twisted
and strong,
I named her, Magdalena.
Many days
I’d go find her
to sit against the rough bark
resting there a palm or my cheek
and music in my ears
to look like I wasn’t just
sitting with an old tree/
and always I would say,
goodbye, to her
before returning
home.
As a child,
I used to chase
the falling leaves
from shaky stems
of maples and oaks,
to try to catch them
before they hit the ground,
sometimes jumping
so I wouldn’t miss
and landing on my knees
with cupped hands, the
barely-there weight
like a baby bird.
I began to do it again
after he died,
awkward and defiant
looking for what it was
I had with Magdalena,
so difficult
to carry,
demonstrating
what should be
and unable to catch
myself.
I put each leaf in a box-
maybe eight or nine of them,
with a picture of me near
the Natural Bridge in Virginia
I had given to dad the
last Christmas-
my pink hair peaking
from beneath an old beanie,
the snowy world like
a ghost behind me
with bright eyes
too calm in the midst
of the cold and
unknown, defiant
before he has
even gone/
to remind,
the heart a falling leaf
that from a branch
grows again
in the same place
in a new place
twisted or stronger
or sometimes both.
habitant
The people we play
the ones remembered
from memory or some story
a ghost beneath the nail we
scratch at hunting fathers'
tender and mothers' dreams
splintered beneath unkindness/
it's the mantle of yesterday
of what is loved and not
yet owned or even known.
Still we choose to be brave
to live a life kinder, flowers are
on the table because we thought
to walk to a garden, coffee brews
on a Saturday morning, little feet
already rushing beneath the sun.
My heart, does
a war rage outside the window?
Are the people who wage it
good? When I blow upon
the palm, even in this
dim light dust looks a little
like stars, and I decide
there the universe is
in my own hand,
and the children receive
this debt, a path lit
by this child we stay,
a joy that is owed.
long arms
When I remember
slips
and pauses, down often. What, love? Ghosts? Palms to face, hold the baby bird | my heart one old one new my
father’s smile and the waves | laughter I hold pure and threatening.
A heart is full, dark cry knifed in the throat crawling, the bark of trees I cannot stop putting a palm upon, there a suspicion of beauty is kept. A person can become inevitable-
fresh snow, long arms I hold them around the powder cold.
In Due Proportion 