Poem: Morning, by Stacy Torian

The morning is my favorite time to be alive. I get to hear quiet and eat sweet things. Some mornings are better than others of course,
like this morning before a holiday
tap dancing in white patent leather shoes and tights
smiling at the sidewalk with spreaded arms, fingers lifting
shiny thread dotted hem.
A yellow rose, twenty feet away, died yesterday.
It might come back to life, who knows?
Anything could happen. Anything.
Three days ago, I pushed a box half my weight and screwed metal rods together, into a frame, by myself. I have strength, still. I love watching the morning in her shoes and skirt, love hearing her voice make song. I want to make a song. I want a voice that will wash dirt from strangers’ eyes and wipe the smirk from the wind’s mouth. I sit on my frame’s cushion, a silent-limbed hum of anticipation, waiting for this voice to come.
A corn broom stands proud in the corner of my flat,
long grain string toes poised on wood.
I rise, I sweep, we dance.
I forget about the strangers and the wind. The morning has made an optimist of me.
Optimism. My quiet voice loves this sunny sound, wants to hold hands with it. It ignores the keloids on the knuckles, the flat graves of abrasion across the carpals, and hunts for the softness. It will find it. It will. And it will sing.

Written November 23-24, 2022

Poem: Balcony, by Stacy Torian

They offered me a seat up top

and I took it, not knowing

that the only barrier

between me and the air would be

slats of wood thinner than belts

stacked barely as high as a child.

I am a fetus,

swathed in the fall that has not happened,

a melody of tumble and screech

floating in gravity’s womb.

In layman’s terms, I am a fool.

Who else but a fool would think a seat in the air

could be more than a seat in the air,

or that a cradle of noise could possibly fill

the emptiness under her feet?

A benthead woman sits yards below my galaxy

taunting in her nearness to the earth.

I covet her place

would give anything to be

down there instead of here,

so high and apart and pretending not to care.

This poem appeared in the Weekly Wafer section of this website in January 2017. It was originally published in the poetry volume, Chisel (2010).

Stacy recommends: Load Poems Like Guns (Women’s Poetry from Herat, Afghanistan)

Women’s poetry from Herat, Afghanistan, as translated by Farzana Marie

Continue reading “Stacy recommends: Load Poems Like Guns (Women’s Poetry from Herat, Afghanistan)”