- Creative Writing -
In Response to Looking Outside My Door
By Melissa Sutton
The sun whispers a crawling day,
raises its arms
and shouts a hello,
with rays
that fall
and patter
on heads down below
like sun covered rain.
The ground engorges,
soaks up heaven,
skies,
and yellow eyes.
It becomes hot and heavy,
leaving lunch for the mass,
beauty for the small.
LISTEN CLOSE ENOUGH, YOU CAN HEAR IT:
Children lapping up laughter,
old men wearing old men hats in their old man way, listening to old men radios,
talking old men talk with other old men
as they watch their death through freshly bought glasses
(two dollars off for senior citizens)
and they look out
at the children wearing bubbles and chalk,
wondering when the war
of their day
had begun again.
BURN THE PAPERS.
The air is full of floating space
with just enough room
to feel the warm breeze
drip down my back,
engulf my insides,
and kiss my shoulders with Time.
BURN THE PAPERS.
My eyes are earthly bound,
been buckled down to shoes
two years now
to this day:
My eyes float over kids in swimsuits
playing catch and return,
women in suits wondering if it's not too late to get their money back,
(red brings out the fat in their thighs they say)
(since when is cellulite a color?),
I roam around and see
young men surfing their days away.
They surf in the early mornings,
right before work calls them in at the age of adulthood,
when it's time to put down supper,
dress the table with silverware,
and buy a home
for those who came
after the dam was broken.
And it's a damn shame,
a thousand dollars a month
could have been
three ninety-nine on a Tuesday.
My eyes drink in the sand between my toes,
school mates thrashing invitations,
(a game of volleyball),
nudists showing all they have,
(which isn't much at all),
my mother's friend sitting in a beach chair
smiling,
looking up at the sky,
airplanes showing banners of whatever,
catching drops of salt
that land in her hands
as she opens them up
to catch a glimpse of life.
And all I can hear is the Cancer in her blood,
water pushing shells on shore,
and my ears crunching as I walk on top in pain
bleeding.
And all I can hear is her smile.
My Grandfather.
My Grandmother.
My Father.
BURN THE PAPERS.
And the sun washes over my skin
skins me dry,
but nothing can be more beautiful than the raw and sensitive touch of a salt
filled hand rubbing over your nerves with a touch feeling more like honey
and striking a chord in what is so deeply hidden
that a thousand peels would never be able to dig it out.
And the sun washes over my skin
as music fills the air
and lifts me up.
I can hear hearts pounding,
legs running,
smiles dripping,
eyes drooling,
and me breathing.
And the sun washes over my skin
as I look into the sky
and see planes without banners,
without ads,
without gimmicks.
And I close my eyes.
'Cause I don't want to see
men
with their ships,
sharing the ocean
with men who wait to catch a ride
from a wave,
with men
who fish on the side of jetties
where lifeguards whistle their whistles,
where people swim too near,
and the rip tide is anything but dear,
where men in ships
swim in papers screaming of WAR
as the head liners bruise my eyes,
and so I close them.
Tight.
Sealed shut.
Sewed closed.
And I can smell the papers burning in my head
as the sun goes down,
touches the world,
and brings divinity to the West.
The sun raises its haloed head
for one last look
as it touches my lashes
with lips laden with kisses
and promises of "tomorrow-I'll-graze-your-skin-again,"
with sun soaked dreams glossing the sand
and silhouetting the birds,
loving the horizon
and flashing the sky with wisps of purple hair
and strands of red tinged yellow.
The sun raises its halo to my mother's friend.
Her eyes fixed to mine,
her dreams sewn to mine,
her hands glowing red as she reaches up to touch the back of her head,
the salt in the air,
timeless moments knowing nothing of time,
her beautiful beautiful face.
And all I can do
is listen.