Nine by Sarah Boland

Fall left with a heavy sigh
As the willow trees bid farewell to the leaves with tears in their eyes.
The willows wish for them not to leave.

On days I walk my brother to school
He often asks why the willows allow the leaves to come and go.
I tell him “because they are far more forgiving than you and I.”
He doesn’t understand,
He’s only nine.

Nine years ago,
Cheap vodka killed the man twice.
His spirit went first,
His body went second
And his wife’s eyes cracked like broken marble,
Blue vases and family photos.

Nine years ago,
She stopped going to church,
She said stained glass reminded her of summer days
And Northern lights but now,
Clear bottles, shards of glass and colored tears

And I often wondered if cheap vodka would kill her too
Or if she was already gone.

About the author:

Sarah Boland is currently a creative writing major at Eastern Washington University. When she’s not writing poetry, she enjoys leisurely walks down the ice cream aisle and avoiding the gym. Her work can be found published in Northwest Boulevard and Zetetic: A Record of Unusual Inquiry.