Amanda friedlander
A Depressive Episode in a Railway Car
They said
“I sleep on flowered meadows and chase golden butterflies”.
They said
They promised: no pain, no grieving.
You cry a little, and then go out to eat.
They go home and lean their heads against the vibrating window of a metra line
40 miles per hour to nowhere,
Head bouncing off the glass with each sharp turn,
Skull damage be damned.
It reminds you of when you were little,
When you’d lay your head on dad’s shoulder as he walked,
And you logically knew it hurt,
His shoulder knocking into your soft, golden brain
But you couldn’t help relaxing
Seeping into the cracks of twilight sedation.
Dad’s not here.
Your stop is approaching.
You pick up dinner on the way home.
He dies later that evening.
Please Put Your Hands On My Face
i'm in second grade.
i'm playing on the swing set.
a fourth grader approaches
and starts counting backwards from one hundred
i'm panicking now
i'm trying to savor every swing (ninety-nine, ninety-eight),
forward (ninety-seven)
and back (ninety-six)
and all i can think about is how dare you take this swing from me
he's somewhere in the seventies
and he sighs
loses count
gets bored and walks away.
and it's mine again
and that moment -
like pink melted marshmallows on soft rose tongues
like beige teddy bears fresh from the dryer
like falling asleep on a mound of still-warm laundry
mine, mine, mine
- that sweet, selfish moment of ownership
of grabby hands and curled toes
of names scrawled on the inside cover of a new journal -
please put your hands on my face
carve your signature into my hips
whisper against my lips,
mine.
mine.
mine.