writing – Yolanda London Dwyer

Laundry Day

Soft, yellow cotton. The blanket hung from the clothes line, swaying in the warm summer breeze. The tiny girl was at her feet, cushioned on soft blades of grass, arms outstretched, seeking to wrap berry stained hands around sun drenched cotton.

“No, baby girl,” she gently scolded, “not until Mama gives you a bath.” The tiny girl gave her a sleepy pout. She smiled. “Did your Daddy teach you that?” Mama placed the little one on her hip. She smelled like sunshine.

Baby girl gripped Mama’s smiling face with sticky fingers. Their laughter floated through the neighborhood; special, sacred, sweet.

… unremark’d

Her fingers curled around his, and suddenly, she understood why Whitman was compelled to write about holding hands amid the noise of comings and goings; their love was poetry in motion.

The Office Furniture/Art Gallery Emporium

https://www.instagram.com/p/BxhbKLWjxY-/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

She closed her eyes and imagined what wonders awaited her there. Fabric rolling chairs that smelled of stale coffee.

Ink stains.

Metal filing cabinets.
Burnt plywood landscapes.
Found object figurines.

Credenzas.

The absurdity of the moment made her giddy. A golden flower bloomed in her core and filled her with a warm, glowing light.

A light that flickered. Like street lamps with commitment issues.

With eyes wide, she ignored the signs of broken pipes and air that smelled of forgotten words captured on mildewed pages moist with time.

One spore was all it took. She stepped forward.

Unaware that adaptation had begun.

Tinkerbell

The sun is peeking over the horizon, but I am already awake.

She is next to me.

Her skin is hot.

She burns.

Like even while at rest, the stardust in her composition spins and turns

Replenishing her magic.

9.2 Miles. One way.

Last night, I drove 9.2 miles. One way.
I found the fastest route and navigated through the usual traffic.

The usual. Lies.

Trafficked on dark, back roads that wind like serpentine smiles and stretch like the long black roads that live inside your eyes.

Last night, I drove 9.2 miles. One way. To hear you contradict yourself and laugh away my confusion with love on your lips.

The night was cool, and your breath was warm, but still the chill persisted.

And yet I closed my eyes and prayed to taste a drop of spring’s dew on your tongue.

Your lies taste bitter.

Last night, I drove 9.2 miles.

One way.

The trip feels longer when your heart is heavy.