Miracle

fragments of some broken thing lay at your feet. you are not too late. they still glisten with expectation, ask for the right to hope, for a grain of truth, for what is outside, for what is real and safe. bright white and jagged but the sharpness cannot touch you and you persist. edges soften with time. each piece you grasp gently between your fingertips. you study and appreciate them for their uncommon beauty. when you have touched each piece you arrange and rearrange them, put them back together and make them whole again.	you enter the center and push firmly, loyally outward with your palms, exposing it to new air, new breath, new dream, the truth in it all, the fearlessness of love, making it grow, making it know. you stand back and admire what you have done, calling it beautiful, telling it to be strong, knowing that you only loved and the rest was a miracle. thank you for saving me. Sherry Elizabeth Taylor, gr. 12
The sauce is tangy- bittersweet and sour. With deft brushstrokes the meat is coated- hidden by his laughter. The grill is old- soot-covered and rusted wheels. Blackened bits of memories, cling to the grating, reminders not to overcook the food, hints of more palatable times. Ancient barbecues, without her, forgotten in his eyes. The fire bursts, Slapping against the sides of the grill- blue flickers; orange fringes. Coals glimmer, an unsure smile. He shifts his weight, beer in hand That chummy look says "I'm still your pal." I want to pinch him with these tongs.	The meat is cold-my thoughts exposed. I smack it on the grating- Red hands curling up around the carcass. Her hair is red. It darkens and pales. I poke it with the tongs- Crispy, maroon on the outside- Soft, ivory on the inside. Heat waves and distorted pictures of my "pal" Wrap my feelings in a candy shell. The grill is cold- the embers died. He shifts his weight; one leg..the other..one leg.. Questioning where he stands: I know Tentatively, perched on the coals of a dead barbecue. Claire Coyne, gr. 9