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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
October 10, 2011
The set up of Spring, 1992. by ~Phu-Phu-Hugs-Me is so subtle that by the topic unfurls, the truth of the matter comes as a shock.
Featured by Halatia
Literature
singles.
Cooper is twelve years old and a treasure in his tennis whites, and I am unremarkable, eleven, blurred at the edges like some uncertain shoreline. He only speaks to me because he sees Coach Drown's hands linger too long on my hips when he's teaching me topspins. We're pairing up, Cooper declares, claiming me from across the court with the wide end of his racquet. He spends the rest of practice serving straight down the line, aiming to concuss. Cooper Corentin plays tennis like we're in trenches. Come on, kid, fight back, he says. If I were a fucking truck, would you just stand
Literature
distinction
This is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe u
Literature
the living is easy
a tin man, white sheep rolled in dust
wears a grin, swisher sweets clinging
to his lip. he swirls seagrams 7 in a cracked
lowball, painting the side of my grandmother's
house with one eye closed & the other
laughing. he cannot speak the language
so i stare at him instead, his penny
loafers, his peeling skin, his snowy hair.
so i stare at his photograph on
the fireplace, wondering how anyone
who loved my great grandmother so well
could have died before i was born.
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Most changes were made to stanza one--I needed to clarify early on who's being spoken to. Aside from that...
I'd like more opinions on "recipes for how to live." Too stressed?
"Lost children, faceless without names" is melodramatic? I mostly agree but I'm still on the fence.
Would you agree that the ending is too much of a cliche or predictable?
Anything else you'd like to comment on is welcome.
I'd like more opinions on "recipes for how to live." Too stressed? "Lost children, faceless without names" is melodramatic? I mostly agree but I'm still on the fence. Would you agree that the ending is too much of a cliche or predictable? Anything else you'd like to comment on is welcome. © 2011 - 2024 etto-etto
Comments53
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This is really beautiful. It has a nice flow, a challenge with free verse work.... The subject is interesting. You'll have to forgive this dense individual but I ask, what the inspiration was for this peice? There is a sense of wistfulness in this. I will have to read it a couple of times I think, not a pity that. Lovely. I lost two children to miscarriage. Your poem, it reflects something akin to what I imagine my little girls would have thought, maybe... just a little bit. Beautiful phrasing. I agree, the word moseying kind of takes away from the feel of the phrase... you have such a beautiful command of language otherwise though.