Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
sometimes she doesn’t
remember me
her daughter
a shadow visible
only in darkness
* * *
A star dies, but its light keeps us company,
its death unmourned for generations.
I feel sad to see the sparkle.
The moon invokes madness, its light hurts my eyes.
I search for Cassiopeia
on her tortuous throne,
her beauty unrivaled.
Holding tight to my sanity, the moon passes over.
As we flame through the sky,
will anyone remember?
He wants to be her knight,
but she doesn’t need saving.
* * *
Boys before
kept her in tears,
kept her in chains.
Holes ripped
in the world
by their passion.
With you
she feels less
pain.
She feels
less.
Cast out by false fathers
who profess love
but imprison creativity,
she finds herself in the company
of those she despises,
trying to hide her true face,
what’s bad inside her
legend told by fathers who seek
to keep their women weak.
The only weak woman
is the one
who doesn’t know herself.
Oh, tell me a story
of she who begins
unwanted and then is chosen.
Family.
Not those we are born to, but those who make us whole.
Not what tears us apart, but what ties us together.
A spark
they still call hatred,
but the scent of sweetness
hides underneath,
the perfect match of wit
and struggle.
He shoves.
She slaps.
He welcomes pain.
It feels like love.
Stinking, crazy,
hurtful love.
dawn is morning’s response
to evening’s darkness
* * *
I am an only child,
little sister I have not.
But the kid
appeared one day,
writing journals,
making a nuisance,
altering my life.
What is a life
if not what’s remembered?
Or is what’s remembered
the whole of a life?
Can missing pieces
form a sister,
like God in those first days
molding a planet from the void?
Can a sister form
from shared memories –
skinned knees,
birthday cakes,
the forbidden borrowing
of a favorite sweater?
If memories fail,
does the sister evaporate
like water on a summer sidewalk?
Or do lies fracture,
leaving a prism
of colorful stories behind?