Poem: Nine Shutters of Snow, by Robert Vaughan

1) She was on the ground staring upward. The shadows from the curtains made impressions that mottled the lesions on her skin. She wanted to rearrange, fluff the curtains, taste the snow once more. But also didn’t want to rise from her position.

2) On the carpet beneath her leg, a stain. The last time she bled. Over an hour ago. She was fatigued from holding the hole shut. Shiny flakes of snow landed on the window’s edge. Shuttered away in waves lost in space and vagrant time.

3) The old man had said this storm would be different. He said it would be over soon. He said it was a place inside her, seconds would separate the end of her life, and perhaps her son, too. It would take seconds of her life. For a second.

4) He forced her up, placed his palm toward ceiling, as if turning snow to rain. The curtains breathed, then eventually sun glared through them. He closed his eyes behind thick glasses. She rolled around, pressed, focus applied to the hole.

5) Only arms dancing, and the guise of characters outside in transit. His fingers like the pinchers of a lobster, the sun penetrating, the irony rich and unfettered. She felt it could only be a slow dance, a dive to the finish now.

6) One last sun slant, a last glimpse of the snowy shards of dawn. At another time it might have been different, a stark contrast to this demise. Now it seemed inevitable, this end, as she raised her hand to part the curtains fully, one last blistering time.

7) Her son came in to find her. Collapsed. He knew it would happen, and he was not surprised. He scooped her up, and carried her into the kitchen. Propped her on a chair. Stared into the sink. Traces of snow against the window. Cook one more meal he begged.

8) The old man started with his pronouncements. He was pontificating to emptiness, and all ears turned deaf against his dogma. The son slipped out, their clients found other indelible impressions and eventually silhouettes were buried in the sand.

9) The shadows from the curtains made his rapid demise even less sustainable. Variable temperatures, and hidden dreams. Every day the old man knew less who he is. The patterns mocked him, appear to leave a slight permanence on his formidable skin.


Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

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