Bones

Bones. 

Dated with everything;

from shades and bruises and love;

the dull ends fit together

like

             sidewalk cracks

             and fingertips

     and heartbeats

and create staircases up

rows and rows of emotion

like cathedrals in

dark designs of

     curved hangers.

And inside,

     you are close. 

Bones is part of a series of poems by Shannon Waite. Read the full collection here. 

Shannon Waite is a writer who has earned her bachelor’s degree from Oakland University in English and Teaching English as a Second Language.  She also earned her certification in secondary education.  She currently teaches high school reading in Detroit, Michigan.  Her writing has been published in various publications of Oakland University’s Swallow the Moon, as well as some anthology publications from Grey Wolf Publishing.

Lips

Lips.

History collects closely,

in bouts of sweet pouts,

and holds magnetic sources.

  Rosy, cream petals

  Turned inside out

  keep quiet

    and close. 

lines leave sentences and

punctuation

like

stories leave memories and

ends. 

      Forget the whispers,

    and hold onto the love.

It is louder. 

Lips is part of a series of poems by Shannon Waite. Read the full collection here. 


Shannon Waite is a writer who has earned her bachelor’s degree from Oakland University in English and Teaching English as a Second Language.  She also earned her certification in secondary education.  She currently teaches high school reading in Detroit, Michigan.  Her writing has been published in various publications of Oakland University’s Swallow the Moon, as well as some anthology publications from Grey Wolf Publishing.

To Coalesce

          In the angled shadows from the shed, we went rogue as we lay in the grass.  Chipped paint from the white wood panels surrounded us like the white bone pieces you find when you are broken from summer love affairs.  We took no notice of them though while we tangled ourselves up.

          Six months ago, if you would have asked me where I pictured myself in the future, I would have told you that “I won’t be in the future.”  I was going to be on the fringes and the outskirts of the future.  No directions were ever going to lead me there because I wouldn’t let them.  I folded and tucked my map into a pocket that I never reached for.