Cathexis Northwest Press

© 2018 

Charging Bull; Tin Boxes; A Silent Agreement
Charging Bull

 

               Red        flags        flash        to        ‘rouse

 

           a charging bull to follow

 

by vanilla scent,                                                       then slumbered slip

 

           and forget confection death                                   tomorrow

 

Regardless a signal’s truth                                         temptation

 

           must be kindled to caramelize

 

                          for bulls chase blush                                    not

 

           White       flags       of       idle       crystalline

 

 

 

 

 

Tin Boxes 

 

 

                        in her youth

                        my mother made turquoise rings

                        adorned herself with possibility

 

             breath            beauty

 

                        social lubricants and conformity

                        but life outgrows initial measurements

                        and delicate bands break

                        how could she combat a

 

             thirst   not     satisfied           by         clinking           bottles

 

                        her turquoise retires after

 

             swollen fingers                    pregnancy

 

                        a child never planned

                        but breathed anyway

                        there’s an idea that children give hope

                        a bad joke perhaps

                        in my childhood

                        she bought herself a ruby ring

                        her birthstone

 

             adorned        me       with     a          promise        of          her    longevity

 

                        but life outgrew initial measurements

                        and I’ve inherited

 

             broken bottles                     ashes                and a tin box 

A Silent Agreement

 

 

                                                                            I will wash dishes

                                                                            Laid too long

                                                                            Sink water, grayed

                                                                            Flooding house breeze with rot

                                                                            Depression climbs to a scent

 

The cabinet doors closed with the wrong kind of silence

The pristine plates somehow offended

She didn’t consider the proximity of my skin

To the shards of glass, ricochet

Fewer dishes to wash, my gift

 

                                                                            I deliver the rent

                                                                            Ride my bike

                                                                            Twelve is old enough

                                                                            Handling hundreds, don’t get jumped

                                                                            Our landlord appeased, amen

 

The deafening music barks throughout the night

That’s how I know our electricity bill is paid

She demands a volume that shakes the walls

Never mind tomorrow is a school day

There are demons to drown

 

                                                                            I don’t complain

                                                                            Greener grasses never seen

                                                                            Daughters are caretakers

                                                                            A silent partner in disorder 

                                                                            Who gave birth, me or you?

 

The syllables crawl out from beneath the liver

The last utterance from a barely conscious mother

“I don’t remember you”

 We divide, are severed, a maternal divorcing 

A silence not of my making 

Katherine Shaw is a comedy writer for The Syndrome Mag, and her poetry has been featured in Clamor Literary Arts Journal. Her work has also been featured in FIVE 2 ONE magazine. Katherine resides in Portland, OR, and does her part in keeping it weird.

(The format of these poems may be skewed on mobile---read these poems on a desktop to see the work as the author intended)