by Gianna, Grade 11
The tweed, the snap, the olfactory
overwhelming over-the-moon order
that spewed out from between her lips,
rancid and red-lined
seemed ever more like the cruel afterimage
of freedom.
She played us opera music,
over the radio
We placed our ears against the speaker
inhaling the noise, the vibration
the full-bodied deafness
the blinding rich deep brown of the Italian man.
Two creams and one sugar
dyed the liquid a pale beige
She drank it like it was the residue of some forgotten painter,
the leftovers, the unwanted byproduct trash
of the dream Emma had, like the dream that Emma had,
the dream she tore and burned.
We were well aware, of course, of our fate
One tall, one small, from a house and not a home
We learned to muffle our breaths in our pillow
when the ever-present glow of whispered voices and giggles
could be heard from upstairs
while we slept on, in her thoughts, clouded by coffee made without love.