26 September, 2006

You were a fiend for chocolate.
Your face would tighten wide smiles
that stretched across a row of buck teeth
filled with sticky brown saliva.
We have this saved in pictures
with your pupils glowing red,
reflecting back the flashbulb
like cats' eyes.

No one would know from the pictures
that you fell over into the piano bench,
bit your hands into callouses,
and bled dark circles on the carpet
after banging your head repeatedly into the floor.
I could hear your teeth clattering together
as though you were all bones in a soft jaw.

They would think you were happy
from those pictures.
They would think you were
the eldest we admired,
the first to drive the car,
the one who broke our parents in,
the crazy older brother
who got lost at war,
because we don't talk
about you
anymore.

5 comments:  schmutzie Reading this over, I do believe that there will be more to this poem yet. Consider this an initial go at it.    My Head Is Too Big Pretty. This is the sort of thing I've been aiming at myself. Rhyme, even rhythm just isn't as important as creating images. A scene. This is a photograph, or(hopefully) a series of them assembled from text. Printed word standing in for what I couldn't see or hear. Nice hit, slugger.    abigailroad Since I know who you're talking about, this really hit home. Beautiful. Keep working on it, i'd love to see more.    savia You reached into my chest and squeezed my heart with this one. I know it must have been hard to write.    Amy at Fannfare Took my breath away with this. I will be back to re-read many times. Thank you for sharing this.   blog comment guidelines post a comment ~ Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom] ~ main page