The Gazeebo

A Poet's Place

The Gazeebo: Blood and Borders


So, first an update on Borders.  I got a call back from them asking me to come in for a follow-up interview for next week.  I’m pretty excited!!  I also found out a friend of mine actually works at the same Borders I applied to, and am having these interviews at, so that’s another plus on that whole situation 🙂  Now I just gotta do some shopping for a new polo and/or slacks to change my appearance a little for the second interview – I kind of enjoy getting new clothes some times 😉

Secondly, I got an appointment with United Blood Services to donate this weekend so I’m pretty excited about that too 🙂  Last year, I donated 3 times, making me a Gold Member because their slogan is “donate 3 times a year” or something along those lines so I was real excited about that.  They even sent me a calendar, which the calendar alone isn’t that big because I don’t care about getting things back for donating, but what was included within it were stories of people who survived certain situations due to blood transfusions and them thanking those who donated, even though they really don’t know whose blood they got.  Anyway, it made me feel even better about donating so it was pretty dang cool 🙂  I’m just hoping I can donate 3 times this year too, even though my first donation is going to be kind of late in the game.

And now finally, the poem.  This was written as a rewrite (made into my own) of a poem called “What Hands Remember,” originally done in Swedish with the name “Vad händer minns,” by the poet Johanna Ekström.  Also btw, I wrote this during my class at the University.

Arms Unharmed; Such Stories They Would Tell

Arms at ease, impatient, waiting –

For what?

The keeper wonders,

as he shines the words, removing the excrement

From the birds above.

He finishes the hard ball of sugar

that he had started earlier

that morning while polishing the finish,

chewing slivers that remained.

The slivers like

the glass

They had been found in.

Now they lay in a bin, Scarlet –

like the apple, whose core was


Was their death, a case of love?

The keeper asks.

He stands over the coffin,

Made of oak,

Fine oak – the finest you have.

Their mother ordered.

They lay inside, cleaned of the blood,

and their dried tears,

as well as the drool, that had been thick and mixed with

their own scarlet.

Helpless as they were in life – glaring,

unfeeling eyes as they are undressed,

bathed, and clothed.

Hands brush the breasts as the dresses are smoothed –

Who wouldn’t have feared

for them in

my hands?

The keeper wonders.

It had been a week when they

were found – petals lay on their faces

Covering the scars.

It was only their arms, their hands,

Unharmed – they were clean

as they had been

hiding under their bodies within the dark –

such memories they surely had.

They would tell you –

what they had been holding,

as the body was marred,

Before the flash of lightning –

It hit the metal frame of that greenhouse,

his greenhouse that he had taken them

to – a diversion from their trip

through the mysteries of their own lives

– that caused

it all to fall down

in pieces around them,

and him to die alongside.

They would tell you –

of the screams that came

from the mouths

that were now closed,

Looking peaceful –

Lipstick having been applied.

To give them some beauty.

The keeper responds

when asked by

their mother.

He had been there to prepare them

For the trip they were to take

Into that golden kingdom above where everyone wears white –

Their mother understands,

As she too has come

To lay a blossom over them.

She strokes their foreheads

A final time, saying a prayer,

Watching as the cover closed

And sealed.

No, not a case of love,

But of greed, a drunken desire.

Their mother responds.

The wind picks up outside, as the sleets of rain

pound on the window pane –

It’s nothing compared to the

fire in my heart,

The love for the children

whom I had never met.

The keeper knows.


June 8, 2011 - Posted by | Your Lungren Originals | , , , , , ,

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