The blame—it stacks high, an unyielding tower of sharp pieces of stone.
You assemble and build and construct…
So focused on this up surd structure
So consumed by the long hours you put in to lay each stone just right for all your viewers to see
but you are blinded—
blinded by the work, unable to see that each shard of rock has your name on it too.
Sonia Chintha is an Indian American writer who lives in the Washington DC area. She blogs, writes poetry, and fiction. She is also an English teacher who believes that our experiences teach us more than any test. She is the founder and co-editor of Good Little Girls.
Tilt my chin to the skies and envision your skies: mostly gray, maybe cloudy, framed by the pine greens and you— With your bright ass
I place the paper boat on the water, Fingers lingering to support the transition from steady to moving And wait. She sways unsteady at first,
Love is the whoosh of a dishwasher filled uncomfortably to the brim, only to be emptied days later in a hurried, not-into-details way, which results
I coast softly with the wind, towards shore. Sunlight holds me up; moonlight towing me in. A vast ocean of rights and wrongs behind me: