Reminiscence
by Jamie Brian
You said you hated the snow
because you couldn't hold it in your palm
without it fading away.
Then your pinwheel eyes would glitter
and I'd tell you I could make it melt.
But you said no, you needed something to hate
because you wanted to love everything
and you didn't understand how.
One day you wanted to throw a rock at the altar
because the preacher told you to believe,
when you asked in what he didn't answer.
You said you weren't angry.
But I saw you cry behind the oak tree in your backyard
when you thought no one was looking.
You always wanted to sit atop of the Ferris wheel,
rock there for hours until your eyelids were dry
and the rain felt more like summer fire.
I'd hold your hand because it looked so small
next to the steel spokes of our moon.
Come December, you were talking in rhymes
about how you thought birds were people
who only sang because they'd forgotten how to speak.
I'd pat your head and say I believed you
because you looked so happy when I did.
Then you'd say you were tired,
your eyes would flutter like sparrow wings.
I bought you a suitcase with silver zippers
because you said you wanted to fill it with years
and open it up when you needed to remember.
You said I like you because you forget.
Then we'd play dominoes, but never knock them down.
You hated hurting them, even though they
made cerulean bruises on your thumb.
I saw you yesterday at the market,
your shirt on backwards, hair in disarray.
Beat/ Rant