Palmtree Contemplations

*Note: Each paragraph is a different woman and you are all very special to me. You seem so strong and beautiful, even in the heat. You are a lady, and I cannot imagine you having any hardship. Then I learn of the deaths in your childhood, how your mother raised you alone, and how you lost so many babies to miscarriage. You and I always have the nicest chats about life. We take turns telling stories, laughing and joking. Then you tell me quietly of how you watched your mother waste away with Alzheimer's and how you begged God to let her die. You tell me that frolicking is quite all right, and that to be single is to blessed. You teach me poetry when I am young, and we both love the word "crimson." You seem so carefree and happy. Years later, I learn of your losses. All along, when you were teaching me that orange and silver have no rhyme, you were mourning your family. We read the same books, write stories that are never published, and for a time actually believe

We will die soon. Not in years, or months, or even days. We have moments left in this cell where they keep us, the weak prisoners who managed to survive. The managing has worn us out at last. My dirty fingers find the  wall and I sink into a crouch on the floor. Even now, I cannot always bring myself to touch the filth, stained and tired as I am. We die in two ways here: shot or sick. The specifics ceased to matter after the first week. So many of us  were killed then, and when someone I knew went missing I stopped wanting to know the story because I feared the horror of it might weaken me. A part of me is secretly glad it is to be the shot. Those who die sick waste away, whereas the gun ends it quickly, like a strong wind from the north used to snuff out the windowsill candles at home. I look around me at the women in the cell, all waiting. The girl next to me trembles. She is slumped against the wall, barely human anymore, more like a very lean vegetable freshly plucked from th

Come away with me To the boardwalk by the sea. We'll make pictures with our footprints, Feed the seagulls and the dogs, Make believe we're mermaids And quote good books long out of print. Come away with me To the castle on the peak We'll drink hot chocolate by the fire, Frolic in the powdery snow, Write poetry in pine green ink, And whisper of times expired. Come away with me To the cottage in the field. We'll picnic in wet grass at daybreak, Giggle at elephants in the sky, Swim in the cold, gurgling creek And hold these moments, ours to make. Come away...