Bench Medley
I couldn’t get the world off of me,
so I tucked myself under a park bench somewhere
around Broadway and sober,
but the days looked the same as they did at home
seeing half-life and life-half—
questioning if the whole of things were really there
or if truth-splintered sat waiting for someone, anyone
to take a seat long enough to carry a piece away;
seeing bands of sky and clouds, rain coming down in pauses
until the sun touched my brow and sections
of flesh from chin to toe.
And I wondered if it was any better here or if I should go back
into number sixteen and one across the way.
The Wailing of Maureen
She met the walls, she met the floors, and windows in between.
She met the sounds in hallowed halls—
The wailing of Maureen.
A staircase led beyond the known, she climbed so she could see,
the doors blown wide, the smokestack gone—
The wailing of Maureen.
She smelled the stench of memories, she smelled the lasting dread,
the taste of birth upon her tongue—
The wailing of Maureen.
A gable stretched into the sky, one step then liberty.
Unremembered but for her mother’s womb—
Oh, the wailing of Maureen!
Krysta Mayfield was born in Texas, and spent her childhood on the plains of North Dakota and in the woods of Virginia. She attended college in Lynchburg, Virginia, and is currently an undergraduate studying English Literature at the University of Texas Permian Basin. She writes both poetry and fiction. Ms. Mayfield currently lives in West Texas.
