By Isabel Bostick
Featured in Caesura 2020: Imago
My Friend, NY
Buzzing with energy and joy and
the chaos of living she never misses
a beat, dancing boldly amidst
stern traffic lights and annoyed taxis.
She marvels at the words of others and
listens closely despite the clutter of
credos and conversations, picking out
unspoken sentences from the tangle of noise.
Bright light radiates from her every
move, and her laugh is a jumbotron’s blend
of neon yellows and pinks, making it difficult
to decipher the shine of night versus day.
And throughout it all, she carries stillness and emulates kindness, maintaining her warmth in a cold frenetic world that has not often returned the favor of civility and joy she selflessly, strongly, routinely is.
Survival Guide
I’ve heard it said
that all of the best people
carry some sort of scar.
Some etch trenches through layers of skin,
layers of built up confidence and permissiveness,
in jagged marks of inconsistent lengths and depths.
Some follow the tracks of haphazard stitching,
threads tracing lifelines and electric cables,
communicating between once was and now is.
Some tenderly expand and contract,
beating and breathing despite chaos and conflict,
enduring what smothers, stifles, and shrinks.
And yet, over time, each becomes
paler
smoother
softer
more whole than before.
Each marking a process of healing,
transcribing the survival guide used by the
body
mind
heart
and journeying forward.
Bonus poem:
Effortless
Spiraling spinning in the gentle summer air
the helicopters fall from great heights to
humble grounds beneath the maple tree that
sprawls across the backyard’s far back corner
Some are visited again by stronger breezes
picked up and carried through the whirlwind
once more climbing and descending onto the
soft spiked grass below the heavy branches
falling just so between the sharp green blades, nestling into sun-dried soil to etch their way into new homes of dirt and roots and tiny bugs— with the dream of
becoming.
Their helicopter blades quickly drying out and
cracking underfoot but never losing their soft
green bean-like embryo protected in the cockpit
that slowly nourishes and restores the evicted seed
Now exploring deeper ground the seed finds its grip
on minerals and dust and rocks, reaching out to
finally land in its new home after its brief journey
from the tall branch to the surrounding soil.
And effortlessly the soft green seed holds tightly between rains and winds and clouds and rays of sun until it pokes out above the ground, once more stretching itself upward, but this time without the whim of a gusting wind, growing into something
more than.
greater than.
never equal to.
never less than.
Isabel Bostick is a sophomore at Indiana Wesleyan University, where she majors in English, writing, and Honors Humanities, and minors in political science. She loves the color dandelion yellow, the smell of a new box of crayons, and laughing with her family.