Bowling

A Poem

Quiet.

Strike.

Spare.

The machine whirrs, spitting

out balls, spitting out pins.

 

Spitting out memories.

 

My grandfather dropping, not 

throwing, the ball.

 

My grandmother’s holding the ball, 

making strikes without remembering 

the game.

 

And me,

my writing, breathing to think,

thinking to breathe, daydreaming

recipes and daydreaming to dream.

 

Dream to remember.

Remember to breathe.

Este poema es de mi poesía autopublicada War of Will , y se puede encontrar en Etsy y Apple Books.

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2020 Marmosetic Wolves

  • Helena Ortiz's Facebook Page
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