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The second half of The Art of Poetry with art and poetry by Suzannah Tarkington
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The Art of Poetry
Part Two
Suzannah Tarkington
Invisible
Though the world around me seemed to be slowly changing
I felt stagnant.
The wind didn’t blow my hair like it did before
The cool air gave me no Goosebumps
The dark of night did not impair my vision
While relatives died and newborns opened their moon shaped eyes
I didn’t flinch.
I heard the beat of my heart and felt the pulse in my veins
The sun rose and set but I stayed
Though I could hear my breath no air came in or out
I withstood the plight of the ever-changing world
I was solid.
I felt no shame or fear or craving
Lost in my own mind
Solitary to the impact of others, I thought
But, when I looked in the mirror I was invisible.
Hole Again
I stand staring at a wall with my reflection on it. I touch the creases in my face, the uneven brow. Finger tips run over one chipped tooth, feeling
Chapped lips set between a smile and a frown. My fingers slip farther, behind the face. There, I am pulled down-‐ caught in a battle betwixt the
Hook of judgment and the potent person beneath. Ebbed along by the soft words spoken by pursed Lips of mothers and politicians and priests. Each Inspecting the wall I see now in order to fix what
Was not even broken in the beginning. I feel how my Fist curls subconsciously, slowly shattering the face I see into
Tiny pieces, leaving behind only the scattered elements of talking-‐tos, Sermons, debates, rules written on chalkboards and memos marked in vibrant red
URGENT!
I am alone.
I have burst through
the seams of their hand-‐me-‐downs a size too small
Forged over the mountain of presumption where was I headed again?
Oh, but how nice the breeze feels through the hole in the wall of my chest
“Home is Where the Heart is”
She lingers on the old wooden front porch,
Looking at the door, which leads to the kitchen where she cooked with her mother. Her cheeks flushed with flour and fingers stained chocolate brown, little hands were
guided carefully through thick sticky sweet dough and wiped on a red apron.
The door behind which the yellow living room carpet, stained with TV dinners and soccer field dirt, became the setting for giant Christmas trees surrounded by poorly
wrapped gifts and noisy children.
The door that enters to the basement where lazy summers were spent escaping the blazing southern heat, girls entangled in yellow terry cloth towels over stripped two-‐pieces eating sandwiches and sipping fresh lemonade through curly straws.
The door leading to the bedroom where the plush purple carpet held the weight of her world, objects collected and stored on shelves to help her remember the times
when things seemed effortless.
The door that opens on to the seldom used sitting room where her parents told her about their newly decided split, her back being rubbed and hand held till it turned white. No tears shed, just “For Sale” signs planted and white walls painted blue.
The door where her childhood formed and fizzled
And from which she now turns to face the rooms of another house in another town where another family’s memories once were made.