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He Said I Shared
Folder:
Butterflies and Avocados He said I shared the color of his mother’s eyes,
And would I like to see?
A photo perhaps
From under his bed,
A walk to the shelf
For an album of dust?
Perhaps.
No, the eye,
that was made for,
And worn by, the her
That bore him.
The Italian side,
of brown eyes,
Gone to hazel with age.
The one lost in an accident,
Found in her son’s closet
Decades and eons later,
Following her demise.
I declined.
You have written a great poem
You have written a great poem here---a complete horror story, with a huge, but deftly implied, backstory---in a few lines (and brevity, in a poem like this, is always a sign of classic talent). Wow! I take the story as fact; but even if it were an imagined fiction, the literary achivement would not be one fraction less of what it is---an awesome, chilling, horror tale in verse. And the impact on the reader is delightfully unnerving. This poem reminds me of the best of Rod Serling's scripts from Twilight Zone and Night Gallery: not too much delay in exposition; just enough details to validate the scene; and a swift move toward a horrifying conclusion. I have rarely found any poetic equivalents of Serling's style (although I have suggested, elsewhere, that the monologue about the moment when the Titanic slid beneath the water, which is spoken in "Lone Survivor" is, in fact, not prose but poetry) . . . but, in this poem, you have given us that equivalent. I feel very privileged to have been prowsing through the new postings today---a process which brought me here (thus the privilege) to read this magnificent horror poem that you have shared with us. Thank you for this!
Starward
I am the privileged one
to get a great critic. It was a glass eye my lover kept in a box I assume in his closet. He was totally obsessed with my eye color and confessed his memory was sharp for the exact hue because he still had her eye. He'd show it to me if i wished.
But this rings as a horror tale and I border on making it one. Maybe in part 2 or version 2. So happy you enjoyed my efforts. Luckily for me we never went to his home often if only once in the year we dated.
Prose should be poetry. My attempts at prose sound like poetry as my creative teacher asserted. "You should try poetry."
You are welcome and i thank you. Which of your poems are your favorites?
Debbie