Five Poems

Poetry
Bree Rehac


Bubble on my finger
Photo Credit: vicomtedechagny

Dear Girls,

We spent our summer days on swings trying
to make our own breeze and under thick trees
soaking in the shade, lazily sighing
out the heat, sipping on life and green tea.
We raced time-stealing nights on Rollerblades
and lost—didn’t know it then. I wished on
resemblances of stars as they faded
into the dawn of city lights. The sun
greeted us on your porch roof and I kissed
my pinky and vowed forever. We laced
fingers when the china shattered, our mis-
takes always fixable and irreplaceable.
Back then, life was a red balloon, the string
tied to our wrists. That’s the ironic thing.

 

Dear Maybe,

You are the bubble that burst at the touch
of my fingertips, the trapped heat under
blankets in the morning—fleeting like thoughts
before daydreams. You shook me like thunder
rumbling under my bare feet—no longer.
Like the tattoo on my wrist, your face has
blurred. Your voice is harder, but lingers
in my ears like an old friend staying past
dusk for that third cup of coffee. We danced,
or you danced with me, spinning me around,
catching me on my clumsy feet. What chance
did I have against your weight? Surrounded
by your facets, the answers are not clear.
I see my face in each of those mirrors.

 

Dear Buffalo,

You used to pop me on your knee and tell
me stories of Babushkas and the old
neighborhoods that grown-up grandchildren still
visit on Sundays, hot pierogis sold
on Broadway and snow in May. Lake-effect
is tame compared to the static we face
now. The sun surrenders to the neglect,
weeping for rusting Fords and wasted space.
But, the kids play hockey on frozen ponds
and crawl through driftwood jungles. Will they stay
to climb skyscrapers? To raise their sons on
Bills and wings? The cars over the Skyway
flock to new nests, but loyalty roots deep
in your clay and its limbs grow in your sleep.

 

Dear Lorelei,

Stretch your love along a clothesline, letting
it breathe. Catch memories in a glass jar,
but then set them free; never regretting.
Search the puff-clouds for answers. Smoke cigars
with the boys and wear skirts that twirl. Find light
in the corners where pain hides. Radiate
from your center, but center yourself. Fight
if you must, and win when you can. Create.
Wish on the bubbles that fly to the moon
like dancing moths; close your eyes tight. You are
a new branch, old limbs hold you to the sun.
You are the tree, the wish and the first star.
I could count my hopes for you to the end
of numbers, my love until the sky bends.

 

Dear Irene,

I miss you when I watch the cars drive by
my window and I count the red ones like
we used to do. I miss you when the sky
roars and rumbles because God bowled a strike.
I miss your rusty laugh and your stories
about being a Rockette for a day.
I look for you when I watch the starry
scene above; you belong there. Do you play
with the children on your block in Heaven?
“Forget me not,” you would say, tiny blue
flowers between your fingers. I haven’t
forgotten your hands, smile or how you
walked me down Circle Lane under street lights,
tucked me into bed and kissed me good-night.

pencil

Bree Rehac, of Buffalo, NY, is an over-worked, under-paid lover of people, life, words and cats (mostly cats). She is the former editor The Laurel literary magazine at her beloved St. Bonaventure University where she is currently pursuing a Master’s degree in counseling. Wherever (and whenever) her feet land, she is devoted to “keep reading and keep writing.” Email: REHACBR[at]bonaventure.edu

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