lavois [of the foxes]
cosmic cracker for an aching belly.
dressertop.
wall in my room aka FoxHole
some of my booties.
dinos.
packing for the weekend.
favorite item i own. handmade quilt vest courtesy of Value Village.
just a few hours til i get to pal around with my favorite fox.
...lavois
Under Construction:
I found my childhood
in the bottom left drawer
of my dusty old desk.
I dumped it out on the floor,
burying my blue carpet
under construction paper memories.
The one-winged black bird rested on
a blue cloud that was far from fluffy.
They lay in awkward silence next to
a bright pile of perfect 8x10s,
lonely from lack of use
because nobody likes orange.
The clumsy cut-out yellow sun
landed among the Smith family,
four 2-dimensional figures with purple hair
and perfect teeth hidden beneath thin red lines.
I forgot to let them smile.
Why did the grass turn brown?
Those ugly, jagged strips
lay now dead and wrinkled
under a heart-shaped void in a
faded red scrap.
Nearby, the scissors lay quietly,
its handles wide-eyed and innocent
but its blades still dripping.
That’s what I get for mixing red with green.
I stare at the scrambled scene and
contemplate rearranging the flattened pink flowers,
taking out the stupid bird,
making the Smiths a lifeless little dog.
But reconstruction could take awhile,
so I reach for that lonely pile and start
folding cones.
I found my childhood
in the bottom left drawer
of my dusty old desk.
I dumped it out on the floor,
burying my blue carpet
under construction paper memories.
The one-winged black bird rested on
a blue cloud that was far from fluffy.
They lay in awkward silence next to
a bright pile of perfect 8x10s,
lonely from lack of use
because nobody likes orange.
The clumsy cut-out yellow sun
landed among the Smith family,
four 2-dimensional figures with purple hair
and perfect teeth hidden beneath thin red lines.
I forgot to let them smile.
Why did the grass turn brown?
Those ugly, jagged strips
lay now dead and wrinkled
under a heart-shaped void in a
faded red scrap.
Nearby, the scissors lay quietly,
its handles wide-eyed and innocent
but its blades still dripping.
That’s what I get for mixing red with green.
I stare at the scrambled scene and
contemplate rearranging the flattened pink flowers,
taking out the stupid bird,
making the Smiths a lifeless little dog.
But reconstruction could take awhile,
so I reach for that lonely pile and start
folding cones.
by: Kristen Green
Want to see your poetry on Lavois of the Foxes?
...lavois
0 comments:
Post a Comment