All the things we used to do<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n
We used to sit at the foot of that grand king bed, miles and miles from all the pillows.<\/p>\n
We used to bow our heads in reverence for nightly prayers.<\/p>\n
We used to squeeze our eyes shut so tight bursts of light shined through,<\/p>\n
backs straight as a board and hands crushed together, struggling to sit still.<\/p>\n
We used to crack one eye open and choke back our laughter.<\/p>\n
We used to play ball in the house, our shocked smiles mirrored back at us<\/p>\n
in cracked vase reflections.<\/p>\n
Do you remember when you left the laptop on the floor and how I did a cartwheel<\/p>\n
and cracked the screen? Do you remember when I hung my head low<\/p>\n
and offered up my Christmas gifts as penance?<\/p>\n
We used to tell that story every Christmas.<\/p>\n
We used to fight every year because you ate my name off my birthday cake,<\/p>\n
maybe it was because we\u2019re Irish twins.<\/p>\n
We used to spend hours cycling through movies and roughhousing<\/p>\n
on the way to Memphis. Our eyes glued to that tiny screen. That\u2019s where I learned<\/p>\n
what I wanted to do with my life.<\/p>\n
We used to trek up mountainous grass hills and roll down.<\/p>\n
Green stems humming in the wind,<\/p>\n
blade to blade whispering their own sibling song.<\/p>\n
We used to tiptoe downstairs at night. In the pitch black warmth of summer, barefoot,<\/p>\n
trading secrets under fridge lights while our house croaked and shifted in the breeze.<\/p>\n
Then, a black hole beside me, warbled with your absence. All of a sudden I could understand<\/p>\n
the lonely lullaby of a whale call.<\/p>\n
I never knew we were so bad at picking up the phone. Do you remember<\/p>\n
when we dropped Nik off at college? We were sat in the Pizza Hut parking lot.<\/p>\n
The aircon rattled in our silver sedan while tears streamed down my face.<\/p>\n
She transferred home the next year. When you left, I tried so hard not to cry.<\/p>\n
After we all opened our eyes to say goodbye,<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t help it.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m sorry.<\/p>\n
The sky cracked with lightning and we had to wait out the rain for another hour,<\/p>\n
I was thankful. Now, when I come home you wait at the door.<\/p>\n
Saving a seat for me beside you.<\/p>\n
At our kitchen table, like always.<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\n
The Birthday Blues<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n
Dilapidated streamers hang like abandoned wind chimes from my balcony.<\/p>\n
The cake, half eaten,<\/p>\n
Trapped in its plastic prison, sits idly on the table.<\/p>\n
Mocking me with its confetti frosting, waiting for someone<\/p>\n
who wants to eat it.<\/p>\n
I would never have a birthday party again.<\/p>\n
I stare out at the tent in my backyard<\/p>\n
Wind blows through its polyester walls like it shouldn\u2019t have ever been able<\/p>\n
to stand upright in the first place.<\/p>\n
I touch my face, haunted by phantom tears dried hours ago. Afraid that if<\/p>\n
I look in a mirror,<\/p>\n
I\u2019ll see it written all over my face.<\/p>\n
Penned in that same deep blue ink on all the birthday cards,<\/p>\n
But in my own crude handwriting.<\/p>\n
Baby.<\/p>\n
Scribbled over every inch of my face and dripping from my forehead.<\/p>\n
Next year I would be double digits.<\/p>\n
That should have excited me but<\/p>\n
Now<\/p>\n
Here<\/p>\n
Sitting at my dining table looking at these plastic toys,<\/p>\n
Their hard bodies, shells.<\/p>\n
Hollowed out on the inside.<\/p>\n
I am younger than I\u2019ve ever been,<\/p>\n
Strapped into a high chair I have outgrown, welded to the floor<\/p>\n
of my childhood kitchen.<\/p>\n
My birthday was really tomorrow, but that didn\u2019t matter anymore.<\/p>\n
I wished I hadn\u2019t invited that one person.<\/p>\n
I tried not to think about it and just be thankful.<\/p>\n
Everyone packed back into their booster seats by their parents,<\/p>\n
Like shepherds herding tiny knocked kneed sheep.<\/p>\n
My dad was sitting on the couch watching TV and nodding off like always<\/p>\n
I went over and lifted his arm and tucked myself into his chest.<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\n
This is for Mom<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n
I imagine my mom running through a tall sea of grass,<\/p>\n
each blade kissing her cheeks with I love you\u2019s.<\/p>\n
I imagine her lifting her tiny hand up to the blue sky in the heat<\/p>\n
of those Mississippi Summers.<\/p>\n
I see her standing and watching her Grandad come up and over that hill.<\/p>\n
The slow clop of hooves nicking against stocks of grain.<\/p>\n
I see her sitting between her sister’s legs, struggling to be still.<\/p>\n
I see my Aunt Diana giving up on her hair, and then, my Mom<\/p>\n
determinedly doing it herself.<\/p>\n
Her hands now, a calloused terrain, each bump a story,<\/p>\n
each scar a reminder.<\/p>\n
I imagine her waking before sunrise and getting dressed. Her tiny eyes<\/p>\n
weary from sleep.<\/p>\n
She walks to the bus stop, and the moon is still out.<\/p>\n
The sky, hazy with orange clouds, as she talks to her sisters.<\/p>\n
Her laugh echoes across the fields, no one around to hear it but them.<\/p>\n
Decades later, that laugh becomes my own.<\/p>\n
She boards the bus headed to the back,<\/p>\n
crowded by people clamoring for a conversation.<\/p>\n
I used to run my hands across her high school yearbook.<\/p>\n
My fingers catching on every ridge. Her smile framed in black and white,<\/p>\n
if you turn the page her teeth will glint and twinkle like the sun.<\/p>\n
I think of her in that hospital gown, as my brother jumped on the bed.<\/p>\n
Her stomach graced with a scar, stitched and opened three times over.<\/p>\n
That line. A door sealing a galaxy that goes back and back.<\/p>\n
My sister waits at her side and my brother’s breath christens my face.<\/p>\n
He sits much too close, craving my spot in her arms.<\/p>\n
I imagine her heart beat, mine stuttering to meet hers.<\/p>\n
I imagine the sleepless days and nightless nights.<\/p>\n
She always talks about cradling us, missing us as babies.<\/p>\n
She looks at me, eyes so big and brown and soulful.<\/p>\n
Deep and rich with a life unknowable to me.<\/p>\n
When she would drive me home from school,<\/p>\n
I used to stare at the back of that gray headrest,<\/p>\n
trying to commit her face to memory. Painting it over and over.<\/p>\n
She\u2019s so pretty.<\/p>\n
I would stay up at night sitting vigil, reading books while light streamed<\/p>\n
under door cracks, afraid I\u2019d miss something terrible.<\/p>\n
She\u2019ll never know how much I love her.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\nCourtney Woods<\/strong> is a junior and a cinema studies major in SAS.
\n<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Courtney Woods All the things we used to do We used to sit at the foot of that grand king bed, miles and miles from all the pillows. … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2513,"featured_media":0,"parent":4318,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-4659","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThree Poems - Writers House Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/vol-5-winter-2024-2025\/three-poems-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Three Poems - Writers House Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Courtney Woods All the things we used to do We used to sit at the foot of that grand king bed, miles and miles from all the pillows. … Read More\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/vol-5-winter-2024-2025\/three-poems-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Writers House Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2025-01-01T21:14:37+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"5 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/vol-5-winter-2024-2025\/three-poems-2\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/sites.rutgers.edu\/writers-house-review\/vol-5-winter-2024-2025\/three-poems-2\/\",\"name\":\"Three Poems - 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