I’ve been missing you But you haven’t been you in months It’s hard to tell if we’re meant to be If there is such a thing Something about you is sharp and sweet Sprinkle of pain Dash of danger Your sex face Lace my shoes up for me baby
You are losing yourself In a spiral My love for you is burning Everything in sight
when i was eleven, my older brother passed away. he was fourteen, he loved blink 182 and the offspring, he played guitar and was even a part of a band (MFIC; motherfuckers in charge). he was impatient but kind, and he was the best brother i could have asked for. it has been nine years since he passed and i have forgotten what his voice sounded like.
i have forgotten what it was like to have a constant companion, someone who was always there to talk to. when he was with me, i felt protected. nobody could hurt me with my big brother there. he never let anyone rag on me, even if he was actively doing so (which was often.)
i loved my brother dearly, even though he most likely regarded me as the annoying kid sister most of the time. I liked to be wherever he was, doing whatever he was doing. i admired him more than i had or ever will admire somebody else, with no regard to how irritated he would get at my constant presence. nobody likes to hang out with their little sister 24/7.
looking back i am glad i pestered him so much to play with me, as now i have more memories to look back on. like playing on the stairs that led up to his room, slowly moving up each step until reaching the top, where i would be so loud and obnoxious until he came out and let me play the playstation with him.
or when we would play swords in the backyard, when we shot empty soda cans with bb guns, when he dared me to eat a jalapeno out of our mom’s garden (which i did, in one big bite.) and then had to run inside to get a glass of milk while i cried and blubbered in the middle of the yard. when we were playing storm troopers in the middle of winter, and my tongue got stuck to a metal pole.
while i may not remember his voice, his smell, or the small details of him as a person, i do have the memories of the time spent together. nine years have passed and my brother has become more of an idea than a person. i think about him everyday, if not when i wake up then before i fall asleep.
i think about what my life would be like with my big brother still by my side. would i carry the same ideas, would i have the same passions? who would i be had he not passed away? sometimes i wish i was her, oblivious to loss and able to live a complete childhood.
but i figure every life has a purpose, so does every death. in the short time i had my brother, i had the best childhood any kid could ask for. i had a partner in crime, who i thought would be there forever.
after nine years you would think you would find a way to fill that hole that is left in your hear after losing a loved one. you find ways to distract from it, to busy yourself. but you never find exactly what you need to feel complete again, simply because you are unable to.
i love you big brother, you stay in my heart always.
The Only Card in a Deck of Knives is a collection of rambling, free-verse poetry that is constantly changing and contradicting all within one poem. Written from the perspective of a twenty something year-old who has a terminal illness, she has the ability to speak on a love of life, dying to die, as well as society’s reaction to sick women and its habit of discrediting their symptoms and feelings.
One of my favorite things about this collection was the way that each poem felt like a stream of consciousness. Things followed a train of thought, like a game where each word or phrase might remind the reader of their next point, or the next thought. You could follow the ideas even as long-winded as each piece might appear. Not every poem will relate to everyone, and how could it when it’s written from a specific perspective that the rest of us can only try to empathize with, but some of the lines were absolutely profound and lyrical.
Thank you to Lauren Turner, Buckrider Books, and Edelweiss for this review copy.
When some people look at the clock they see numbers. Others all that they must get done; the requirements they must meet. Every ticking second presents a new hoop to jump through, a new kid to pick up or chore to get done. When I look at the clock all I see is you. The ticking hands show me every second we’ve spent together and every hour we’ve spent apart. The hands tick down tediously to your arrival. They race around the clock to mark your departure. When you are gone they are there to daunt me. When you are here they are there to taunt me. When I look at the clock I see every minute since we first met, every hour we spent together at that old diner, and ever second we sat in silence because I messed something up. The hands point forth to an age of loneliness they show me a life of minutes spent without you.
What if there existed no other language on earth except something deeply symbolic: a handshake, a hug, a kiss. The sheer capacity of the human body to express by itself, be it through the eyes or by the hands is simply amazing. A touch could be more healing than any other medicine discovered till date. And don’t ask me what wonders those lips could do if they were to just widen a bit with a hearty smile, enough to bring all the heavenly bliss. Get your body involved, tongue is not the crown of expression, it’s merely a medium resorted in the last phase. Otherwise, your entire being is more than enough to express beautifully by itself - this body, in which you reside, is the perfect symbolic epitome of what your soul is truly made of…
