c. Sara L. Russell
those Sundays spent sleep-lidded, carefree, the warm
aroma of coffee, an intensity of Columbian,
a starburst of sugar, a billow of pillow
a salt savour of skin, a quickening of ardour
a sorrowing of rain lashing the tiles into submission
in the drab outside
weekend-wanton, cocooned and unravelled from time,
the same smooth familiar arms and face
the fit of curve to hollow to curve
the unbroken interwoven dreams and half-
awake exchanges, the silence that knows affinity
independent of words
Those mornings -
I wish they would come back.
c. Sara L. Russell
If only once again to hear your voice
Out of the careless times we knew before,
But time brings subtle change, leaving no choice
Until all pleasure is usurped by chore.
For even as the tide erodes rough stones,
Erasing every sign of former life,
So follows time, to strip tomorrow's bones
And bitter change becomes its flaying knife.
If only once to live inside a day
Within a microcosm of the past,
No thought that anyone might move away
No moment ever seemed too good to last.
A sober truth eclipses reverie:
I've learned that change is time's catastrophe
c. Sara L Russell
Such an acrid smell of chalk dust and wood.
An intensity of scents and sights,
the graffiti on the desks, tattooed with ink,
chewed apple cores,
flickering strip lights,
a cacophany of mumbling
with knowing smiles:
secrets outside of my perception.
Everything vast and imposing,
the blackboard so far away
but my sharp eyes drink in all
but the most spidery writing.
A sneer, a backward glance.
A blackboard eraser thrown at my desk
brings the chalk smell closer.
I look towards the teacher.
A shouted question, incoherent.
I watch the lips, as it repeats.
No, I don't know the answer,
but the question is clear.
A ruler slams on my hand
sniggers penetrate my head's goldfish bowl.
I keep my tears for later
as the mumbling voices keep their secrets
for an eternity.