for school
Tessa Brown
2/3/05
Per.5
Text Poem: Not Letting Go
Alone beneath the sheets
Hiding from the day
You watch the phone ring
Letting the machine pick it up
“We are worried”
Is heard,
After the beep.
“What do they know?
They felt pain,
But if they were as bruised as I,
They too would stay inside
Not wanting to
See, or
Speak, or
Breathe.”
These words you repeat
First yelling them out,
Then fade down to a mumble until
Motivation is lost.
A month has passed,
And each night you stare, into dark corners.
Everyday seems so pointless.
You are the living dead.
Why wont you move on?
She is not coming back.
No matter how many tears are shed
It will never change
What happened.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Is whispered back.
Tessa Brown
3/6/05
Per.5
Section11: My Love, My Life
Pads of pink toes pat, pat and thud on revealed pale floorboards. A rug I bought in Chinatown is rolled up. Furniture crowds the outskirts of the room, too embarrassed to dance. The rhythmic beating of heavy raindrops intertwines with the instrumentals coming from speakers. Arms flailing in flowing motions. Hips moving and bumping and jiving. Little fingers connected to little hands slip into mine. Grasping. Our laughter rises and rises until it fills the room. We gasp for air, my daughter and I.
With legs like a leopard she jumps into my arms. I wrap my self, my being around her. Strong protecting. Curly golden locks flow in front of her face. They always do, and I push them back. I fear the days when her hair will grow darker, and she wont let me push it out of her face anymore. When her love isn’t all for me, but for someone else. When I won’t be there to help pick her up when she trips. Now we twirl. Twirl and jump and leap and fly. In the living room. When the rain falls over the city.
I am not confined to a cubical. I never wanted to be either. I never wanted to file papers. Papers that would do nothing for me, they wouldn’t make me feel. That life would taste of sour vinegar. My soul is free. I steal moments in time. Then put them on film. Split seconds that are forgotten, I take. My stolen images I then take into a room of crimson. Until I’m done. I know how much light needs to flood the area. I know the perpendiculars. Where they need to line up. My art. My oxygen. My life
I enjoy just walking around this city. My home. White laces pulled tight into a bow; secure red converse to my feet. Comfortable and casual. Cars and cars and cars honking and breaking. They create the soundtrack for my days. Alone I am, but I don’t feel lonely. People of all colors, sizes, gender, nationality, social class. We all walk together. Discovering new things. New buildings that appeared over night. Markets. Restaurants. We eat out at restaurants a lot. My husband, daughter and I. When he is in town. Most days out of long years he is playing connect the dots with cities. He sings and plays guitar. He wrote a song about his angel, little Amelie. Amelie he sings, oh Amelie. He smiles while he mouths out the A and the M, all the way to the E.
I keep a camera and notebook in my canvas bag at all times. The canvas bag I got at the flea market down the street. I never know when I will see something I want to remember. Remember and never lose. Even the bad. Even the nights my heartaches and I cry until I fall asleep. All these moments are important. Without these my existence will have been just another grain of sand on a beach.
Up two and a half flight of stairs. Behind a cracked door. Bright lights and a bustling city as our audience. With my daughter who has hair of wheat that I can still sweep out of her face. We dance.