I can't recall what it feels like to be a child,
touching the coarseness of dry grass for the first time,
and smiling without adult worries-
as I take it in my soft hands and walk to the barn.
-
I can't recall what it feels like to be overwhelmed by the stench,
but open the red doors anyway,
and choose the cutest cow, one with a spot shaped like a heart on its head,
and hold out the hard grass with earnestness,
and allow her heavy tongue to graze against my palm
and lap up the grass.
-
I can't recall this childhood in the country,
because I cannot recall the feeling of running back home,
with my slimy palm, empty-handed,
to my own meal waiting on the dining room table.
I can't recall the stuffing, the peas, or the runny mashed potatoes,
nor the squash soup, greens, or the slice of bread and butter.
I can't recall a single meal that could make me feel as full as I did,
when feeding the cows.
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More stories from Kera Hollow and writers in Poets and other communities.
Where there's Art there's Heart
Here's a stupid thing: I adore art, but I start to panic whenever I step into a gallery. In the one place I should be at my contented best - surrounded by walls teeming with creative expression - I fall apart. What ought to be an enriching experience, tacitly designed to facilitate the exploration of human empathy and perspective, is for me an overwhelming purgatory of anxiety that compresses me to the point I cannot breathe. At the same time, I experience a sense of extraction, as though my head is being prized open to create a hole so big my sanity could evaporate. Somewhere between these two opposing forces of vice and vortex, I feel myself dissolving in a stream of panic that makes me want to cry; and I feel so daft feeling this way, that all I want to do is run for the hills.
By Caroline Jane5 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Awww, a heart shaped spot on her head, so adorable! Loved your poem!