Treasure Island

A.j. Binash

(04-20-1988 / Dodgeville WI)

O.M.G.


Her honesty belongs to the Mississippi.
Where our footsteps
Dodged garbage
Floating to shore
With driftwood.

We used dead branches as pens.
Writing poetry into the sand.

The words failed us.

For it was there
She confessed
About her father.

She sprinted
To where the waves
Barely touched shore.

Into wet sand
She wrote about him.

His face and scars.
A blood shot
That left bruises
On her eyelids.

In response
Her mother said:
“Pretend like it is eye-shadow.”

High tide came.
The orange rays
Of a dying sun
Reflected in the wake
That blended into the sand.
As it reached her poem.

She sat next to me.
Her eyes glossed, but tearless.
Within minutes her poem was gone.

“Are you okay? ” I asked.

“Yes.” She said. “It’s better not to feel, anything.”

Submitted: Monday, October 21, 2013
Edited: Monday, October 21, 2013

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