Zoë Bracken: Three Poems

Photo by Marcus Löfvenberg on Unsplash

[Image Description: A frozen lake, it’s icy surface broken in variously sized shards, with dark blue water flooding in between.]

slope in

out of the porcelain shards from

eggs of Canadian geese,

we awoke and learned the art of

walking on weakened legs

bodies are magnetic, as ours pulled in

the lavender lilac royal purples

from just beyond the window

he flew in, between the screen and glass,

perched with curved talons, digging into the mesh.

violet made a space just small enough for us

to follow him in his flight.

she and i exchanged muted promises of love,

drew webs of heather and cerulean on exposed skin

when we couldn’t speak out loud.

i wanted you to be the mama goose and

him, our brother,

to lead us on our winter’s walk

around the lake, over the bridge

to sit under the willow tree

blanketed by the expanse of a cooling sunset.

close

the island air is salty and burns

at my hips and shins.

i  tried to tell you

words clumping at the peak of my

my throat. their mass multiplied, cancerous.

i thought you would see and notice the absence

and tears left on the fabric.

i hated my mother for leaving me

alone when i asked her,

the door was too heavy, stoic and wooden

afraid fingers would get caught as it shut

the return

through the open window

on hudson street

jazz music wafting up.

mugs gripped greedily

by still sleepy fingers

a day to start all days to start

all days

we, three

limbs entangled.

returned at those hours of the night, voices hushed.

hazy iterations of waking up alone

to quiet street corners

lazy trees,

they bear no fruit,

having passed.

back in her fold again

legs dangling out the frame

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Zoë Bracken is a senior Sociology major at Vassar College hailing from New York City. If you liked her poems go out and vote in November.