Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
A flower
that shouldn’t exist.
I watch it bloom,
realizing I’ve frightened
away everyone.
The earth yawns,
or maybe only
pretends to yawn,
mouth open wide
to swallow us whole.
Lady in shadows,
full of her own voices,
gave me life
yet plunged me
into darkness.
Now the only place
to have me.
The flower no one
will pick.
What gives a girl power?
Certainly not a man.
Confidence perhaps,
although many a girl unsure
has found strength to move
through and out of
insurmountable struggles.
Physical strength may
keep oppressors at bay,
but it’s power of mind
they can’t take away.
To all the women
who still can’t vote,
own property, drive a car,
go out alone without a man,
or even feel safe:
May the jaw-like grip
of societal laws
be peeled back
to reveal
your natural power.
* * *
The man I knew
went away.
The man
I didn’t love
then.
We were something
different then,
but not love.
When he returned,
he was altered.
An interior addition
not at first visible,
but oozing
out his pores
like blood
from a wound.
The man
hiding in shadows,
unsure of his own sanity,
reclaimed his soul
by contest.
For reparation.
For love.
For me.
But once done,
he found it disconcerting,
what lay inside
more complex than love.
Who knew
there were things
more complex
than love.
* * *
A live with
P ower and potential.
O nly girls become slayers.
C arriers of the stake
A nd protectors of the people.
L ove? There’s no time for it in their lives.
Y es, it does happen. Slayers are
P eople too. Just incredibly strong people
S aving the world, abolishing
E vil and all around kicking ass.
The yellow crayon
looked like the sun.
She wanted to take it
inside her body,
color over her fear,
but she pressed too hard
and the crayon broke
into pieces.
She began to cry.
Her best friend rescued
the sunny segments
and tried to press them
back together.
Her tears made him feel
like he did when his mother
yelled at him.
He hated when his mother
yelled at him.
I’m sorry, he said
to the teacher.
I broke the yellow crayon.
* * *
The girl, now grown,
doesn’t want to hear
that he loves her,
tiny and scared,
ugly and evil.
That he remembers
the yellow crayon.
But his is the only voice
she can hear.
Her rage recedes
as a volcano of sorrow
storms from her eyes.
And he holds her.
Just that.
* * *
When the world returns,
it’s spring,
when flowers reach up
and we crawl from the ground
to follow,
far from wellness,
but healing,
able to see the beauty
of the blossoms.
And when we least expect it,
our soul returns.