| PICTURE NEGATIVE by Gabrielle Amarosa Stars’ Crossed Love I see her across an inky sky, Pure light, Brighter than any other.She is part of the great bear— Like a bear herself, The strongest and most fiercely beautiful.We all orient ourselves by her— There are more of us Than pieces of sand on a beach. Each doing our best To light up a piece of the blackness But none do so well as her.Is my love superficial? For being so numerous, we are so lonely. The distance makes me ache. Closeness is a relative concept for us. But still, I am envious of the Proximity of the bear.Memorizing millions upon millions of my kind Is no small feat— But then again, I spend all of my time looking.I notice When one of my kin winks And then disappears. My grief is long delayed, But I only just found out.My greatest fear Is that I will someday see my love Wink and fade out. An even greater fear: What if she is already gone, And I am only now seeing her memory?I hope I fade first— I will not be missed, not by her. But my world, still bright, Would be unbearably dark Without her. Picture Negative A sister never met— If I never knew, can I still forget? So many things I’ll never know: How we’d love, fight, and in tandem grow.I think of her still when I walk to that grave On silent January days. How there are times I crave her advice, But regret and “what ifs” are slippery as ice.There are many days I can’t feel the hole— How can I miss what I’ll never know? But still there are moments I can’t help but wonder… Would she have protected me, because I am younger?Would we have similar talents, loves, and hates, Would she fix my hair for dances and help me balance on skates? Would we have the same dark complexion and hair, Or would she be my negative, tall, graceful, and fair?Would we live in a house of three women, then? And harbor an even stronger distrust of men? I think we would laugh, loud, carefree, and strong, But most of all I would understand a sisterly bond. She She lives where I live, Inside me, Behind me, Occasionally through me.She pounds a drum Incessantly, Like another heartbeat. The doctors think it is another heartbeat. But it’s not. It’s her, and her Thrumming, toneless, never-ending drum. A call to action Or a call to insanity. Either way, I rarely pick up.Sometimes, briefly, she takes over. I wish she would do it more often; I’m tired, and she’s tireless. I try to imitate her but I’m Too close to her to do it justice. The space between us is like Between a finger pressed on a mirror And its reflection.I snatch glimpses of her sometimes In my own reflection or mind. I beg her to stay, but she goes. Back to her drums.The thumping in my soul Unfurls into a thumping in my head. I wish I could turn myself Inside out So that she was facing the world And I was facing her drums. I would not touch them. I would only sleep. She does not need the drums to call her To action or to insanity— She answered both long ago And they live inside of her The way she lives inside of me.I don’t have the stamina To drum the way she drums, Ceaseless and eternal But somehow always fresh and new.But maybe My final waking act Can be to drum her out So that I can sleep.Come out, come out, Come out. Her drums are louder. COME OUT, COME OUT, COME OUT. Her drums are faster. COMEOUT, COMEOUT, COMEOUT, COMEOUT, COMEOUT, COMEOUT.I am no match for her And we both know it. The hands of my soul are already raw. The vibrations have already Shuddered up through my jaw And settled into my temples.I catch her attention The same way a child catches a bubble, Where the very act of doing it undoes it.I slap the drums once more, Loudly, Frustrated down to the hard pit of my being.I am going to sleep. Either she will come out, Or she won’t. I will not be awake for it either way. My call was not strong enough; Is hers?I feel heavier and heavier, Until even my ears are too heavy To hear her drums. I slip into the softest black And the sweetest silence. My last conscious thought Is to wonder whether the drums stopped Or whether I am just too far away To hear them or feel her. I take my hands off the drums, Open my eyes, And see the sharpest white.My turn. About the Author:Gabrielle Amarosa is a high school math teacher living and working in Lawrence, MA. A recent graduate of Worcester Polytechnic Institute, she has a major in Actuarial Mathematics and a minor in Writing and Rhetoric. Her poetry has been featured in an Arts in Reach poetry collection. |
