Posted in My Bonnie, Poetry

The Elevator

This poem came from the prompt: Where would you go if you could take an elevator to somewhere in your past…

Now that This
is done
She’ll die…

I have never Known

my Body like
This before

that Something

the size of a

Cantaloupe
could Push through
Me

in an Instance

Reconfiguring my…

Everything!

He breathes
against me

the Two of us
Come through
a Storm

Labor, Unknown (visipix.com)

Crouched
in a Puddle
of  blood
Wrapped

in bath towels
Cold,
even though
it is August

Collapsed
into this new
expression
of Separation.

Tour (the newborn) (visipix.com)

I’d take that
Elevator with him
to Summer’s
End
1957,

To the Curb
of a boarded up Motel.
A covert block
from the cross-shaped
high school
that my mother and I attended,
Two decades spanning
our sophomore years.

Raffael, Hypatia (visipix.com)

I’d find Her
there
Shrouded
in Exhale
Relieved I wasn’t
a Nun

She, in knee socks, buckled shoes,
a shin-length pinafore stretched
across emerging breasts, taking

a drag
of a cigarette

that she’ll

smoke

Van Gogh, Skull with Burning Cigarette (visipix.com)

till the end of

her

Life

~

We lock eyes across time,
and I scream…

“PLEASE! DON’T!
Someday
day you’ll be
My mother
and he’ll
be Your grandson,
and Together we’ll
Watch
you
Die.”

in memory of my mother & friend, Bonnie Kelly Bradley, Christmas Day 1942 to the Feast Day of Mary 2000

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Author:

Lifelong educator, writer, yoga & yogadance instructor.

One thought on “The Elevator

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