Where Lost Things Go

They’re warped into a shallow valley,

Where whispers haunt the clouds.

Trees crack and crook to sideways bends

To make a path never found.

A bronze watch, a teddy bear, a well-worn ring.

The items that have aligned

Heart to matter.

This place is a river devised to

Divide the banks of those hearing and those listening.

Like a gravitational pull, it does not give a gasping care,

But still it grounds and holds,

What does not— should not matter.

This place is shaped as a clock—

Its hands dominating and steering.

Like time, there is no limit—

No minutes and years to count.

No one goes there, but not for lack of want.

But why should we want—

If matter does not matter?    

Restaurant on Rye 

My hands as soft as unsettled snow,

They’re still injured from kneading bread dough.

While my eyes sprinkle them with hail,

I notice him standing there as if behind a veil.

With a glance, I see his black suit and tie.

He’s a stranger in a restaurant on Rye.

I rip at the cream’s lid, its thin rim.

But when he sees me I’m suddenly aware of every limb.

They’re sucked into quicksand, unable to get out,

Wishing to move towards him, to walk without doubt.

My face resembles the whitest bread;

He has eyes I have neither seen nor read.

My vision halts, my own hands a blur.

I try to hold my coffee and begin to stir.

I imagine what I’m wearing—what’s he seeing?

A soft yellow dress— flowing and freeing.

In 2010, I attended the Education Program for Gifted Youth for creative writing at Stanford University. During the program, I learned from an amazing poet, Peter Kline. While poetry is not my writing style of choice, I greatly value my understanding of meter, as it informs the way I write prose.


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Copyright © 2017 Kasia Manolas
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