The Reading

An assignment from my creative writing course in college. One of the (surprisingly) few times I have gotten to combine my passion for music with a creative writing medium.

Sweat seeps into my

sleeves - a different kind of sponge;

Like bows poised hovering above four strings,

my eyes also hover over four beings -

|-Girl

|-Boy

- Boy

- Boy

Shuffles of uneasy shoes on concrete flooring,

sleeve-sweat snaking and whisping into my nostrils;

both belong to me. Like this music

about to strike the walls and penetrate the eardrum.

My creation is now in these eight strange

hands, whose owners will take it

And burn trying to warm -

freeze trying to cool -

drown trying to quench -

scratch trying to caress.

Is this my future: an ambitious, hopeful mother,

birthing hundreds of children, only to then leave them

on unfamiliar doorsteps, with careful instructions

which no one will be able to follow?

Author's Note

All constructive criticism is welcome!