Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Poetry: Angry Triangles

Seated in my chair,
dressed in her coat,
she's in my sweatshirt,
and candles are around us,
lights and flames and words.

Tears sit in my eyes,
lay themselves to slumber
with such patience
and continuity,
intending to stay
awhile.

I think she shoves me a hand
but I peek to see that
I'm groping at a box of tissues.
So I say faintly, "thanks,"
with a shaky voice
and I take one, two, six,
and then her opened palm.

And I hang and clutch
onto this warm hand,
never relaxing my scared grip,
like the child I never was
and never ever could be,
and she is shaking, too.

I fold my paper
into many angry triangles,
shifting,
and she tells me,
"You can do it,"
even when her own hands
terribly tremble.

How she affects us;
she hasn't a clue.

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