Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The State Doesn’t Love Your Children

Joe’s number came up,

and he never came home.

Homesick for the innocence of teenage summers,

driving his dad’s truck down to the moonlit beach,

with a couple of cans that they shouldn’t have had,

and a couple of friends he’d never see again.

Joe’s sister was an unwed mother,

but he still wrote to her at the home for wayward girls,

trying to make conflict sound like the games of soldiers they’d play together in the back yard when they were young,

but Mary heard the ricochet of the rifles,

and the screams of children,

miles away,

she sobbed into her pillow,

a blood soaked letter on her bedside table.

All the girls used to like Joe’s long blonde hair,

they said he looked like a movie star,

but in his last few moments,

the long hair was long gone,

and he was cradled in a crater,

like a frightened child.

Joe was a frightened child.

Eighteen,

with dreams that were never going to make it out alive,

and neither would he,

but what was it for?

What was it all for?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Stay Away From Me

She left a potential death sentence on the fridge,

my eyes roll,

relaxing into a coffin,

because I won’t sleep for the rest of the night,

when I am gnawed at by anxiety,

over what all this vagueness means,

and…

Christ,

what if I die?

What if she’s left the death on the towels in the bathroom,

or the pile of washing up that waits on the side for me,

from her dinner last night.

Is it a death sentence?

She tells us all to stay away,

but I can’t tell if she means she is a viral villain,

drowning in the death,

that flies all over the world,

or if she means that she just means that she’s in a mood,

not in the mood to see anyone,

so wants to socially distance,

in a small house,

where we live on top of each other.

Every couple of weeks,

she sits in her Oval Office,

playing final games of football,

while we wait,

alarms aching in the air,

without explanation.

Nobody knows why.

I’ve never known,

when we went from friends,

to cruel child with a magnifying glass and an ant,

when I went from Switzerland to Poland,

and I suppose I never will,

because there are never facts to be found,

or a way to unwind mystery,

in vague four word notes on the fridge,

that could mean anything at all.