How to Remember You Are Alive
Warm water trickling on your skin like starlight and the glide of brisk lotion sharpening your legs
and the immaculate forty-five-degree angle of black at the corner of each eye
and the sparkle of gold paint on your lips
and the gust of hot air that dries your hair in seconds
and the safe scratch of a knitted sweater
and the cupping of faux leather around your heel
and the lick of heat upon your forehead as you open the back door
and the pillow of weeds floating beneath your feet
and your daughter blowing the dandelion seeds with her dragon breath
and the cat’s eyes gleaming like citrine
and the clouds weaving against the sky like muslin
and the electricity of iced tea on your tongue to negate your bask
and the peck of a good song through your body like wind
and the vibration of your weight against the earth to keep it humming into life
These
Sutton Wilderness Park
The trees grin their welcome
as we slide along the path
they have made for our curious feet
begging us to tour their home
no tickets needed
so we pad across the dirt
and kiss eyes with bunnies
and the lucky cardinals
that dollop the trail’s edge
like musing paintbrushes
until we meet the water
where the ducks splash each other
in literal fowl play
and the turtles stack along a log
in a game of dominos
while the wind sings its presence
so we don’t forget to feel
with more than our eyes
as the sun reflecting off the water
hypnotizes and blinds us
with nature’s intoxicating wonder
and we forget the civilization
from which we came
and long to stay in this moment
in a world that was created for us
but ignorantly shunned for ease
How could we abandon such bliss?
Ant
Swim along the window
sill and exist.
It’s okay. I know you might
be afraid, but I’m okay
with you doing what
you know. Pity showers
my cheeks peach.
Sugar drop plops granite
counter tops and makes
your senses tingle
wild in instinct
to relish in our waste
insignificant, small
dead.
My mother’s hand would smash
you into another pixel
in our simulation, but I
don’t understand why your life
is a nuisance as long as what is
ours has been abandoned.
You breathe too.
Who are your kin,
new fellow in town?
And how much do you
have to say goodbye to when I
grab the hose on the sink and steal
all you were ever going to amount to
without even thinking?
Brontë Pearson is a science journalist and creative writer from Arkansas. Her essays, short stories, and poetry seek to expose the art of being human through natural discoveries of the body, environment, and mind. Her work has been published in numerous online and print publications and "best of" anthologies, including 805 Lit + Art Magazine, Eastern Iowa Review, Red Weather, Arkansas’s Best Emerging Poets, Door is a Jar Magazine, and others. Her e-portfolio can be found at http://bronteepearson.wixsite.com/brontepearson.
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