By Emily Gersky
Enlighten Your Ears
Twinkle twinkle go the stars
as the sun sets and the
moon rises in your ears.
The folds and freckles
dusted in random clusters on
the sea saw shell line of your pretty ears.
Gravity pops in my ear drums and I swear
that my ears tighten so silly sound
can’t slippery slick through and
every time I see
those twins left and right of your face
I can’t erase the desire to embrace.
This Earth
This Earth is the color of rusted cars
stacked in tumbling piles in moldy
dumps, the rat bitten seats like flea
bites on the interior of a sensory overloaded
system with a degraded radio that once
pumped lusty hot sex songs through it
filled with moans and rocked to sleep.
A gas light still flashes and runs on empty as
broken and bent windshield wipers stick to
shattered glass pieces on the crumbling
dashboard. The heartthrob scent of
bloody gas stains sings to a spread out
city filled with lights and steady shadows
and the heady cologne of overfull garbage cans;
it pulls minds to wander through this Earth,
and lends a dower certainty that dampens;
everything finishes as the shell of a carcass.
Home
Snuggle deep in those trees, little house.
Don’t mind the wind, he’s just temperamental
he won’t really hurt you.
Tip drowsy into the cushion snow
I will slumber deep in your tummy.
Home in your drafty kitchen, wooden tables,
dirty spoons, flower napkins, cold floors,
and fingerprinted walls.
Everywhere I look I see me and you:
peanut butter and jelly stains on the
wall from tripping fingers, chips on cups
when you wanted to try a sip of my
morning tea, pencil lines on your walls
when you wished you were paper, smoke stains
in the fire place from when the power went out (we
were both scared of the dark then), the rainbow of
pen drip on the table from when we wished we could
color the world, and dust everywhere because you
said I had better things to do than straighten up.
You pushed me out the front door but I always came
back and shared the stories with you and tipped my ice
cream bowl so you could have some.
Little house, little home, we always shared.
Emily Gersky is 17 years old. She is terrified of heights and ants, and loves music, reading, and writing.
