Tag: short-story

Poem: The Reaching

If ever a UFO landed on your head—

“She thinks that's a weird question.

No UFO has!”

I wasn’t talking to you.

But to you . . .


Pretend one has.


What do you think it would feel like?

Imagine it.

Go on.

I will wait.


[A sparrow flies by]


I am not asking how heavy it is or

Cold or

Bumpy or

Smooth:

You could not really know such things

At all.

I am asking what you would feel like inside—

“She would feel like an idiot!”


But if it was really there . . . on your head—

“On her head? What is this ridiculous riddle?”


Okay not on your head, but over . . .


If you ran out of your home

With no where to go

Your hair was torn and

Bruises and

The smell of whiskey

And cigars

On your face—


If your shoes were untied

And you saw your mother cry

And you didn’t want to stay

One more second

In that place.


If the air was so cold

You could see your breath

Shooting into the night

Like a jet engine beginning a race

So you slowed your pace

And panted and heaved

And your knees buckle under you

With disgrace.


Let us pretend the aloneness

You feel—

“It’s just a feeling, she's not alone!”


But still . . .


Your aloneness is real

With no one to call

And if you turned back now

You would be thrown against a wall.

So despite your

Aloneness

You crawl

To safety and the blackest woods

You embrace.


If in that space

You held on tight to a

Branch you could reach

Or the neck of a deer

Or the paw of a bear

Until

At last

You saw glowing near

A rounded

Machine with light bulbs you could see

And a sound you could hear

Like a robot giving chase.


What would you think—

“She would think she was nuts!”


Okay, maybe. But . . .


Would you believe your eyes

Or think your sanity was disguised

In the brain of a woman

Otherwise apt?

If you could touch and

Feel

Would you believe it was real?

And what about smell?

If you could smell the exhaust

Coming from the pipe

And taste the metal on the

Wind of the night

And hear a voice shrieking,

“We come from someplace” . . .


If it landed and

A hand

Came out from within

Would you look at your fingers

And kiss them goodbye

In case after touching they never returned

But still reach them out

And touch the warmth

Of an unknown hand

Unrecognizable

And trust

Even before you could see his face?


You can answer now—

“She doesn't want to answer,

She thinks you’ve gone mad!”


But there is no madness in the question. It is only a question . . .


“Yes,” she said.

And continued on,

“If I knew I was alone

Even in a crowd

And the sky delivered a mystery

I would.

Reach out.

And be brought in.”


Thank you for your honesty—

“Thanks for nothing, you mean!”


But thank you for telling the truth.


With a pair of eyes

Belonging only to her

She looked at the man

With the question,

“I would.”


© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025

Poem: Unzipped

Born into the beauty of Spring

Between a fog-covered morning and

Daffodils breezily performing

A ballet in minor keys

She was touched first by the sun

Tenderly

Warmly

Our greatest star floated down

Like a blanket,

Covering.



Her mother was gentle

Hands soft and graceful—

Rose petals against her fingers

Blushed in their inadequacy

To soothe pain

With placid refrains of

Touch

Sliding down from

Cheeks to chins

With whispers thin.



Her father worked the fields

Gathered to his chest

The yields he nurtured

From seeds into

Future nourishment

Carried

In straw-colored baskets

To a town where

Eyes lit with hellos and

Hands shook with goodbyes.



Buried deep inside

The beauty young

A grain of aberration was planted—

Roots grew long and

Slanted downward

Spreading wide

Like awns on Wheat

Piercing delicate organs

Changing the beat

Of her sunflower heart.



Melancholia filled the pasture

Of her mind

A harvest inward

Pulling

Watered by heredity

Drowned in mystery

Tears stagnant

Hidden

Breeding mosquitos

Draining from within.



Born into the beauty of Spring

She lived in the landscape of Winter

Bracing against snow-filled torrents

Of frozen joy—

A sculptor of ice into smiles

A painter of masks

Detailing profiles

Desperate to delight

Those she could not disappoint—

Ashamed to bare only flickering light.



Her mother named her Bliss

Her father called her Life

They held her hands

Through seasons passing

Interlocked their fingers

With her plans

Held her high for every eye

To marvel and admire

Proud of the child, the woman

They knew her to be.



Her outside

Belied

Silent cries—

A contrast of

Cheerful attainment to

Sorrowful containment

Wrenching from

The wish to please

To the reality of

Brokenness.



As Autumn sang

Its songs of change

She unzipped her disguise

Let her discrepancy fall

And her hopelessness rise—

A coffin soft

Burlap and heavy

She sunk into the shadow

Where finally she could hide

From sunshine and from lies.

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2016