by sophia fangman
Nicolet High School
gold and silver
she used to believe it was possible to find an entire forest in someone’s palm.
her grandfather told her that those scars of what we hold too tight
would stand and become each proud branch of the oaks, maples, pines.
that the scars of what holds us too tight
are etched onto our bones;
etched into places where excessive love has cracked our insides.
heartache shines silver, he said, but is heard in whispers:
her delicate bones glowed golden; but daggers are silver.
when her ribs slip and puncture a heart,
they leave a glowing bone-shaped hole.
her grandfather told her that the bend of her elbow is what makes her a woman;
woman is hewn from the ore of planets;
a woman's veins, scars of what generations of mothers and grandmothers have left behind:
but when she allowed this boy to feel her warm glow,
the bones of her elbow fused together into a stiff, unyielding line.
when he whispered the planets’ names into her neck,
she didn’t hear her own
he convinced her that her veins were too faint to be scars.
as she became a woman in this boy’s eyes,
her elbow snapped in half, shattered.
she grated those golden bones into fragments of the desolation of planets.
daggers are silver
and these bones became silver.
silver shards of grated bone silver shards of grated girl silver shards of grated woman
Sophia Fangman is a high school senior in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She has been writing for most of her life, only recently delving into the poetry genre. Next year, she will be attending college in the Northeast, where she hopes to study creative writing and sociology. This is her first publication.