West Virginia roots
Grow deep within my heart
And her ever winding rivers
Have formed me into art
The mountains held me high
When I felt that I would fall
And her gentle valleys cradled me
When I feared I'd lost it all
The long country roads I walked
Led me to my home
Her land greeted me with open arms
And welcomed me as its own
West Virginia blood
Flows freely through my veins
I am wild and I'm wonderful
And I will never be tamed
Mother
Through trials and tribulations she fought tough.
Living conditions and people situations always rough.
Through it all she was a bright and shining light,
A beacon for the poor and downtrodden in their plight.
Though many Christians turned their backs on her,
She never wavered never stirred, for she was called
To do this work.
This work of love unconditional so pure,
This love abounds this faith Iʼm sure.
To meet her would be my dream come true
For I strive to be more like her too.
Mother Teresa
D.Boyle
Homeless Ghosts
I spit out burned yesterdays,
homeless ghosts of my solitude,
hovering above in damnation of doubt.
Grey rotations of pain wait silently,
your white raiment colored
with my virgin spilled blood,
a soulless, endless creation
floating just out of reach
in the light of waylaid darkness,
hanging by swaying daisy chains
jumping off at the next flower.
Thick soup memory hides your fog
as tilted haloes resurrect
deception crawling on all fours,
sliding into macabre waltz.
I imagine the tiptoe patter
of your naked feet leaving,
my core frozen by cold absence
ghostly remnants of your misty eyes
cauterize my soul, leaving it barren
while I kiss your translucent smile
GOODBYE.
Winter Child
Frost creeps around the window
Injecting frozen yogurt on its edges
Pushing open
He jumps in
instantly staining the floor white
Poking around the dreaming cupboard
He bites a slice of bread
an apple
and the fingers of a fork
Jogging on the restless table
He manages to send the vase of flowers
flying to the sink
Kissing the lamp goodnight
He flings himself away
Just Another Face
An accident. That’s what I tell people when they ask. Boiling water or sometimes oil. I tripped, that’s all. An unfortunate spill with catastrophic results.
I wasn’t beautiful. My nose was too long, my face narrow, my cheekbones plagued by freckles. And my eyes were farther apart than they should be. The cumulative effect was a bit feline actually. But I wore my thick, auburn hair long, curled at the ends. And I knew about makeup, so boys looked my way. One boy in particular.
He had this desperation about him. When he presented in class, his balled hand would drip sweat. His hair fell in long greasy strings. When teased, his mouth twitched into a teeth-baring sneer, but he never fought back. He took the punishment, laid flat against the lockers, curled into a ball on the floor, all with that same sick look stamped on his face. I watched the whole thing go down once. It was eerie how silent he was while the kids pounded on him, kicking him in the neck, the chest. I didn’t step in though. How could I?
Just before the bell rang every day, he squirmed in his seat, slipping and sliding on the plastic like an eel, bolting so quickly that his desk rocked back when he left it. But his eyes were the thing. His eyes would sometimes spin as if possessed, as if trying to latch onto something to keep him in place. Spin and then refocus, always on me. Always on my face.
I knew he wanted to ask me. I could feel it coming in hot waves off of him. His shadow stood over me, wanting. He blocked the sunlight and stuttered the question, but I just couldn’t. Not even to be nice. When I said no, he pulled out a vial. He yanked my hair back and brought me to my feet with one hand and then ripped out the plug with the other.
The fire that fell from the tube ate away my flesh to the bone, pooled in my eye sockets, spread into my hair. I can still feel it burning even now. When I fell, screaming, at his feet, he dug into the raw flesh, ripping and pulling and muttering to himself. I felt my nose slip past my cheek. Felt my left ear slide to the tile floor. As I screamed, it ran into my mouth and down into my throat.
When a teacher lifted him off, he shouted “Now, you are something special. Not just another face.” And he laughed. Laughed at me as I lay quaking in blood and melting tissue.
Blind now, I’m not allowed to buy a gun. Knives however... I’ve taken my time, working my fingertips over the blades, feeling the weight in my hands. He gets out in 19 days and I will be waiting. Waiting to carve off that sneer. He will learn what it means to be not just another face.
