I watch from my window
the birds pick at the morning
apples. My friends, do we
forget the fairytales or beg
to live them? The Mother,
the Witch, the Spell, but, oh,
to be kissed. Sweet waking
kiss. How red longs to taste
red and the tongue swells
into a balloon choking wisdom.
What will I tell her? How
do I silence the stories that
silenced me? She is my child,
poor thing with clever disease.
She is my blood in new skin.
She is not innocent, only naïve.
And I cannot trick all the traps
the devils set for her. I am
only an orphaned mother
sprouting apples. I bake pies
and feed them to her. She
devours them sweet and always
cinnamon. She knows nothing
about the hunger growing
within. I give her all my
kisses, all of my love
and pray it will be
enough to silence
the stories.
Isabel Sylvan lives and writes along the Raritan Bay. Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications over the past twenty years. She is currently the editor of Poetry Breakfast, an online poetry journal. In 2012 she began producing an art collection featuring a mix of movie stills and her poetry. By merging images from stock footage with her poems, she has created a visually pleasing blend of poetry and photography. Her first widely published collection of poems, Songs In A Broken Minor Key is forthcoming and two additional collections are in the works. For additional information visit http://www.isabelsylvan.wix.com/poetry.
