Accept

Friday afternoon, quiet in the office. Enough time to think, to write. My mind drifts in and out of poetry, stops to take my daily pill. Keeps me as sane as the world expects me to be. They say your thyroid is shaped like a butterfly. Funny, mine has wrapped itself in larvae. I ask myself once more, Why do I have this disease? How will my body end?

I stare at the clock on my desk, the secondhand climbs between 30 and 45 and slips back down to 30, still ticking. Up, up, up, up, up, up, up, up, up then down again, perpetually stuck in those fifteen seconds, while the other hands stay true to man's time. I wonder if I can fix it, wobble the battery. Nothing changes. I decide to leave it alone in its imperfection, not ask why or how.

by E. M. Soos

The End

I feel death's
orange sweet breath
on my face, when
I breath out its
wish, I hope I fall
like a leaf, wither
to the ground, be stirred
up by the passing
cars, flutter back down
to rest, gracefully.

by E. M. Soos

A Blue Window

My those are long fingernails, he said
Plopping my hand on top of his head.
I kinda agree, I laughed with a wink
Dragging his old ass out to the sink.

He closed his eyes as I turned on the water
Amazing how much he looked like his father.
I ran the slimy shampoo into his hair
Grabbed onto a lane that wasn't there.

I rinsed and repeat, dared not to condition
My only rebellion in a world of tradition.
He sighed with a smile and clasped his hands
His legs swung limp, unused rubber bands.

I massaged his scalp for a minute or two
Traced his ear as a lover would do.
Before the moment passed, I memorized his face.
The next time I'd see it, it'd be covered in lace.

by E. M. Soos

Carnation

In a field of flowers
Saulo chooses a single carnation
White with red tips.
He bends down, cuts it off
From its roots, turns
With a gentle smile, places
It behind Camela's ear.
What a way to live
To die in a woman's hair.

by E. M. Soos

Kitty

As you fall asleep for the last time, will you hear me singing our song? I'll be 400 miles away, but our time zones are the same. 5:30 p.m. The needle will puncture your skin. I'll be singing to the tune of Unchained Melody, "Oh my Kitty, you're so pretty. I've hungered for your purr, a long, lonely time." Will you hear me and go quietly, or will you meow like you always do when I sing you our song?

If you can't hear me, I hope at least you remember the sweet things as you go - canned tuna, Thanksgiving turkey, Pina Colada Paletas.

Dream of your favorite things. I'll remember my favorite times with you. Whenever I was sad, you came to me, let me hold you tight, licked my tears. When I practiced my violin, you came to me, sang along, even when my notes were sour. I'll remember how you only liked to drink water as it flowed from the faucet, shook your paws off when you were through. I'll remember the echo sound the walls made when you bounced off them down the hallway, having fun in your own silly way. These memories will hold me, as I wish I could hold you.

Go now, my friend, to the open arms of all those who've gone before you. Grampie will pet you, let you sit in his lap. Tanner will laugh as you bounce off heaven's walls. Amelia and you will make up, CT will share his broccoli, Pearl will taunt you in her four-tiered bowl, Freddy and Fromage will let you chase them, maybe chase you back. But Pud is the one most waiting for you - she can't wait to snuggle with you again.

by E. M. Soos

Prayer to Death

Death, the only immortal who treats us all alike, whose pity and whose peace and whose refuge are for all - the soiled and the pure, the rich and the poor, the loved and the unloved. - Mark Twain

I awake from my prayer to death. Feel the cold black marble burn my skin. How long was I on the bathroom floor? Probably only minutes. My joints detest. It had been hours.

My conscience resists this moment of clarity, wants to be brought down again into the picture-frame of insanity where wanting (no, needing) death is allowed.

I want to believe that no one understands. None of the doors around me have handles. Is it the Devil who feeds my self pity into such a cocoon that it's hard to break my head free of the sticky swirls? Or is it the Devil who cuts open the cocoon so that I can remember the world around me?

by E. M. Soos