Die A Child

“Die A Child”, “Had You Been Made of Marble” and “Seeing and Believing”

In Poetry Issue Four by Morgan Gage

Die A Child

We’ve passed the years of make believe,
but you still make a child of me
and shambles
of my ordinary life
every time that you come
crashing into it.

The color coded files
that held my life together
and keep it straight
now spilled
and scattered,
but you’re just grinning
and claiming that
the pages marked blue
remind you of the skies
and my eyes,
but my eyes are brown.

Still, it sounds like a movie line,
so you say it anyway.

And I try to care enough
to shout or glare,
but the smile on your face
can stun me
into stillness.

So I clean up your messes
and imagine that
you’d do the same for me
if I ever had the spirit to wreck things.

And I know we’re too old
for make believe,
but I’d like to pretend,
just for a moment,
that I could take your hand
and die a child.


Had You Been Made of Marble

Had you been made of marble,
you’d be hailed as a
masterpiece
and displayed alongside
ancient sculptures
and revered by people around the world.

Yet, you say that you cannot be both
broken and beautiful,
but artists disagree.
The missing parts and pieces
of Aphrodite
do not detract from her beauty
or change the fact that she is a
goddess,
her body illuminated by glowing lights
and the shining of eyes staring at her
in awe.

There is no hope of restoration,
and no one would dare to try
to fill her cracks or make her whole,
because what she has been through
is a part of what makes her breathtaking.

People crowd around her
and try to record every detail,
to etch her figure into their memories.

They would do the same for you,
flaws and all,
had you been made of marble.


Seeing and Believing

You tell me that feet never
touched the moon. I believe you,
not because I see lies
in the eyes
of Neil Armstrong. No,
I don’t believe in the moon.

Yes, I have felt the tides, and
I’ve seen the stars.
I’ve seen the moon,
but

I saw love in your words,
pink puffs of passion that
wrapped around my ears
and sounded like bubblegum,
dulling the sharp edge of your voice.

So, no.
I cannot believe in the moon-
I have seen it,
and my eyes are already straining.

About the Author

Morgan Gage

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Morgan Gage is a high school student in Texas where she runs a local literary magazine, writes for the paper, teaches poetry classes, and holds a passion for writing dear to her heart.