The pensive poet contest - Constance La France
Snap crackle pop
as i lay my ear down
to the rim of the warm orange bowl,
tiny fireworks shoot into my ears,
like a tiny pebble
skipping on gravel.
Little me slouching in my grandmas rustic wooden chair
I hear birdsong and caws
through the stained glass window, beamed in by the Sunday morning sun.
My favourite part of going to my grandparents
was the mornings.
Grandma making sandwiches to bring to the church.
Papa watching the history channel, sitting on his raggedy brown leather chair,
his iPad and other miscellaneous antique grandparent items
basking on the coffee table in the living room.
As a kid, i was never allowed to eat past the line connecting the dining room to living room.
I would sit on my bright blue booster seat with my chocolate cone dribbling down my tiny, sticky fingers.
On the line of the living room- my papa beside me, turtle ice cream cone in hand.
You could also find me
on the plasticky-feeling, shiny green mat
under the kitchen sink,
while I gazed at my grandma scrubbing dishes, ice cream and saliva covering my rosy face.
My grandparents always told me to not use too much sugar
but
obviously
as a child
we oblige happily to whatever comes to mind.
Put as much sugar in your cereal as you please, smear that ice cream all over your face.
In their tiny mind
there is no life long consequence of a fulfilling sugary breakfast.
Back when the world still had a dewy contrast , to us they were just penniless actions,
not yet aware of the pain
of scraping your raw knee open.
We weren’t thinking about
how maybe our body could change tomorrow,
because of too much sugar in our cereal.
Even if sometimes we did,
that feeling in no way
is put to scale
the feeling of
pure
innocence,
innocence
without
a
consequence.
- Casha b
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