Rebecca Thrush
Three Poems
Before Letting Go
Living with you is like breathing under plush blankets—intimate and all-consuming, warming me up from the inside out and every angle—until suddenly the oxygen ratio falters, slowly dwindling as we pass each exhale back and forth. We posture and repose to find space to breathe—clinging, pulling deftly away, as we silently realize we needed more than our own recycled air to fill these desperate lungs, and more to love than softness and safeguards, as we dreamed of ventilation and backwoods breezes
Pressure Points
I imagine the feeling
is quite like that of the
fulcrum on a seesaw
Enough weight to hold
me down, but not enough
balance to stop the pull
And I’m telling myself
that the weight is getting
easier
But each night I can feel
the pooling blood and
overwhelming fatigue
And suddenly all my strength
is gone and I’m left with
an empty shell
Can you sit with me on either end?
Will you help me balance
this never-ending loss of control?
Please, tell me
When will I stop teetering?
Take Shelter
The sky turned yellow today
Hazy, inescapably hot and heavy
And tomorrow it will become
The dullest of grey-greens
Today isn’t the calm
But it is the before
Before the world collapses in upon itself
Before the winds turn endlessly in anger
Before the ground trembles in fear
Today the sky turns yellow
It’s a warning of what’s to come
And there’s no changing tomorrow’s path
You can only hide and wait for the storm to pass
—Submitted on 07/10/2020
Rebecca Thrush‘s work appears in Open Minds Quarterly. She is a real estate professional in New England.
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