Shira Hereld
Poetry
Shira Hereld is a freshman at the George Washington University, majoring in Theater with a double minor in Political Science and Creative Writing. Her poetry has appeared in Choate Rosemary Hall’s The Lit, in the print copy of Teen Ink, and has received an award from the National Council for Jewish Women.
Six Months
The grass has grown tall as a tornado around us.
Deep beneath it, my memory of you is a shy brown rabbit,
Nestled in its close dirt burrow
Because it is spring,
You whisper ever more loudly in my ears –
And I laugh alone at our jokes
I dream of the graveyard where you and I sat,
Feeling the rough tombstones slide between our naïve fingers
Or of when we walked under ladders,
Pretending to find shelter from the rain
Soon you will fade into a blurry smudge
Wearing a faded flannel shirt
But for now, my memory of you is
Sharp as cumin or paprika
You are a flannel fish swimming through my neurons,
More alive with every spark
The grass, coarse as gravestones,
Binds, gags, and suffocates us
Because now it is summer.
Now you are bones.
Deep beneath it, my memory of you is a shy brown rabbit,
Nestled in its close dirt burrow
Because it is spring,
You whisper ever more loudly in my ears –
And I laugh alone at our jokes
I dream of the graveyard where you and I sat,
Feeling the rough tombstones slide between our naïve fingers
Or of when we walked under ladders,
Pretending to find shelter from the rain
Soon you will fade into a blurry smudge
Wearing a faded flannel shirt
But for now, my memory of you is
Sharp as cumin or paprika
You are a flannel fish swimming through my neurons,
More alive with every spark
The grass, coarse as gravestones,
Binds, gags, and suffocates us
Because now it is summer.
Now you are bones.
“ In 2009, I lost a dear friend of mine - now, two and half years later, I find her all around me. Her eyes are in the leaves, her heart is in the sky, her laughter is in the wind. This poem is for her, and for every memory that can never be extinguished. ”