A Collection of Poetry: Inspired by Liz Lochhead.

Talia Wetzlar - The Guardian

Mournful eyes ripple and shatter
The glassy reflection boring into me.
Our tea had run cold by now,
So no matter that the boisterous tyke had knocked it
Clear out of my hand. It did not scald, nor did our mother scold.
The dull thud of the cup on carpeted floor resonated and I stared at it,
Sorry for my loss.

The cherub crawled from my lap to mother's, as we continued to gaze blankly forward at...
What?
The fragmented pixels on some screen that made noise that no one
Seemed to hear? Four in five were transfixed by the welcomed distraction.
He gurgled and tugged at mothers graying locks playing God, the Puppeteer, She moved only as the strings made her look alive, but not truly alive
Her movements were jerky and grotesque. Unnatural.
Was this part of God's plan?

He wriggled out of her limp hold, dissatisfied by the lack of adoration and rolled into the bible black boots of his father.
Once a man with a perpetually intimidating gait that rivaled the ferocity of his square shoulders,
Now slumped, crooked, as if the puppeteer dropped a string, loosed a limb.
The toddler lay at his feet and stared in the wrong direction, peering curiously
Not into the rectangular flicker of light but into the hollow faces of his caretakers.

Why you cry, sis'er? He pleaded, frightened by the silence of his family.
Determined to battle this solemn enemy he stationed himself
In front of our sister, whose tears gouged lines into her pallid cheeks.
Our small, golden haired guardian, puffed out his chest in an instinctual manner, Crossed his arms and with a hard look in his eye threatened the television he was sure caused us
So much distress. With a look more solemn than a mortician Could embalm, he watched as we did.

But how
Do you explain to a child, that there has been
A death in the family?