These are not Your Eyes

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 17, 2018

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Submitted: May 17, 2018



These are not Your Eyes.



You think of your mother better in the spaces

rather than any of the words. After all that,

what’s there between ‘welcome’ and ‘home?’


Can you know her better through the still air

when you ask her


why am i alone?


Looking back she was always standing by the river,

it just wasn’t obvious until she’d been drowned

by its cold waters.


Her hands were blurred,

hidden among the tall reeds lining the path.


some mistakes can only be made once.’


You just see hardwood floor and wet tile,

and a woman with wet hair looking for aspirin.

It's never been different, except her eyes;


these are not your eyes,

dead for fifteen years during a failed civil war.

you never could tell the story like she could.


She tells you to look carefully at the dealer,

‘Choose your hand wisely; it’s all you’ll ever get.’

Your shoulder burns under her hand and you say ‘Hit me.’


They are not yours, but they burn

and all that drops is your stomach as you say


‘don’t go when i cannot see you.’


His wrist turns and the cards flip.

There’s the lady white with red roses, floating

under the black willow by the river.


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