Childhood
The sun spreads into a field—
and the field opens into another.
Life remakes her story.
You, too, were this child:
hiding with a flashlight
inside a shadowed cave—
With the cool air of summer
and the kissing sounds of bats;
enough shade to rest
and shallow creeks for thirst.
Those years, you release
into a rush of vapor and heat.
For each chance lost,
the heart must work harder
not to shut anything out.
Sometimes your life dims grey.
Sometimes each moment turns
into a scarlet thread revealed.
The sun spreads into a field—
and the field opens into another.
Life remakes her story.
You, too, were this child:
hiding with a flashlight
inside a shadowed cave—
With the cool air of summer
and the kissing sounds of bats;
enough shade to rest
and shallow creeks for thirst.
Those years, you release
into a rush of vapor and heat.
For each chance lost,
the heart must work harder
not to shut anything out.
Sometimes your life dims grey.
Sometimes each moment turns
into a scarlet thread revealed.
The boy with red hair
said my name so quietly—
when I approached his desk,
he looked up
with all those freckles
and asked if I would
read his poems;
tell him what I thought.
Sure, I answered,
glancing at the clock.
Already late, I tucked his words
into my bag and promised
I’d see him next week.
I was halfway home,
before I felt the weight
of responsibility
he’d just given me.
Working in Pairs
Maggie asks if she spelled the word FAIR right.
As in “Not fair.” Not the place the pigs win ribbons.
Drake says he’s got the word DREAD
stuck in front of his head—while Kyle,
across the aisle, opens a bag of pretzels
and asks if anyone wants one.
Emma helps Sam find his eraser.
Sam tells Jake he’s going to write in cursive.
Echoes from the playground float down the hall.
About to close the door and get their attention,
I change my mind and listen to the entire chorus
of their sweet procrastinating instead.
said my name so quietly—
when I approached his desk,
he looked up
with all those freckles
and asked if I would
read his poems;
tell him what I thought.
Sure, I answered,
glancing at the clock.
Already late, I tucked his words
into my bag and promised
I’d see him next week.
I was halfway home,
before I felt the weight
of responsibility
he’d just given me.
Working in Pairs
Maggie asks if she spelled the word FAIR right.
As in “Not fair.” Not the place the pigs win ribbons.
Drake says he’s got the word DREAD
stuck in front of his head—while Kyle,
across the aisle, opens a bag of pretzels
and asks if anyone wants one.
Emma helps Sam find his eraser.
Sam tells Jake he’s going to write in cursive.
Echoes from the playground float down the hall.
About to close the door and get their attention,
I change my mind and listen to the entire chorus
of their sweet procrastinating instead.
Karen Benke is Poetry Editor
of /Memoir (and)/, a writing
coach, and a poet-teacher with
California Poets in the
Schools. The author of a
chapbook, /SISTER/ (Conflu:X
Press, 2004), her poems have
appeared in /Ploughshares,
Poetry East, Hawaii Pacific
Review, Runes, Heartlodge,
Pilgrimage, Rockhurst Review,
Clackamas Literary Review,
Tiferet,/ and online at
/Poetry Daily/ among other
journals and anthologies. She
lives with her family in Mill
Valley, California, where she
is completing a book on
creative inspiration for young
writers. Visit her
at: www.karenbenke.com
Light Becomes What It Touches
The sandbox is a desert,
the child insists,
we all must cross
for water.
His branch, a sword,
he waves at the air.
When he pokes
the invisible tiger,
he looks over his shoulder,
promising
he’s strong enough
to save me.
But I just stand there,
unable to join
his fun—continuing
as I do to speak
exclusively
the alphabet’s
ninth letter:
I think— I know—
Pretty soon, I say,
it’s time to go.
But the next time
I look up—
he’s already grown.
The sandbox is a desert,
the child insists,
we all must cross
for water.
His branch, a sword,
he waves at the air.
When he pokes
the invisible tiger,
he looks over his shoulder,
promising
he’s strong enough
to save me.
But I just stand there,
unable to join
his fun—continuing
as I do to speak
exclusively
the alphabet’s
ninth letter:
I think— I know—
Pretty soon, I say,
it’s time to go.
But the next time
I look up—
he’s already grown.
Karen Benke
 | |  | |  | |  | |  |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |