By Lillie Waltz
if i could i’d pluck it from the sky like a peach &
the pit would fill me up but the low-hanging fruit grew &
the tree trunk swallowed the nesting squirrels and robin eggs & i’m my
desiccated mother sending her firstborn off to college.
i stayed home yesterday while she dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex,
this house is too full of air for me to speak, this
Barbie needs to breathe.
give me a chance to leave and i’ll be off running
like water, i forgot to feed the dog before i left.
if i could i’d put this in a time capsule and bury it into soft earth;
mother nature can cradle my cries better than i can, my one friend for life —
i love my best friend &
i don’t like her anymore, she didn’t kiss my boyfriend but she
makes tea in the microwave and doesn’t
ask about my day. but we used to run topless
through sprinklers together, doesn’t that count for something?
i make plans and then
cancel saying I’m getting dental surgery that day, can we rain check?
i grab an old umbrella and swallow-dive into the storm.
Lillie Waltz is a current high school junior and teen writer from Cincinnati, Ohio. She is an alum of the Kenyon Young Writers’ Workshop, and her work has been recognized by the Overture Awards and Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, among others. When not writing she can be found running, watching Gilmore Girls, and curled up with a good book.
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