My little white box. Inside it is quiet,
the kind of quiet you can hear your
cigarette burn in as you inhale.
From the window comes the kind of
darkness that makes the narrow, naked
treetops look like spiderweb mansions.
The white tile kitchen floor, like a shallow
rain puddle reflects the shadow of my
body as I saunter across each smooth square.
In my little white box is a mirror—
I move to it. A white waxing crescent
is what I see. Me looking back at me.
About the Creator
Madeline Peterson
21-year-old creative writing major at MSU.
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Dear Mom:
I tell him about the pennies. I tell him that when I see the shiny ones I know that it’s you. How I pick them up from the floor, picking up pieces of me with them. And he smiles at me, a kind of smile that says he wishes he had a pocket full of shiny pennies. His brown eyes are dark and so cold— they’ve seen too much. I used to know him by his laugh. The one as strong and high as the trees we climbed together as children. And I’m thinking of you, wanting a coin to gleam right here, right now, on the floor and absorb all of our sorrow— like the yellow roses we loved from your funeral. And I’m thinking of Angels, wondering where his are hiding. And if a kiss is not a penny then tell the Angels to please leave him some other sign because he needs this. We need this. I’ve never been good at praying— I’m telling you I would throw every last penny I’ve found up into the sky where they could shine like guiding stars if it meant he could have closure. There’s no bringing you back, but we could bring back his laugh if you whisper to the Angels. He collapses and dies small deaths, and I’ve grown tired of searching for him inside of them. I know sometimes he wants to go, but he doesn’t want to leave a mess the way you had. I wonder if he’d leave me pennies. If when he got there he’d finally understand the Angels. If they would understand him.
By Madeline Peterson6 years ago in Poets
The Gen Z Entrepreneurial Revolution
It is hardly debatable that the world has always been run by a bunch of aging dinosaurs, mostly male, who refuse to allow the younger generation to bring about changes. Politicians and leaders everywhere refuse to release the reigns of creativity and leadership until they are dead or dying. It is time to give the young a chance to revolutionize and change the entire landscape of their existence. Those of us with one foot in the grave, so to speak, should wake up and realize that we are not the ones who will be living in the world in the years to come.
By Novel Allen7 days ago in Writers
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