Tryth

The poetry of Evangelene Stevenson

Cana

On the Adirondack Mountains

Some things had become sin by that point
and that breeze carried away some of the guilt
some of the frustration
and the silence explained why I couldn’t forgive the truth
The fool rises
The wise descend

I had seen great heights already on these skinned knees
and these swollen eyes had taken it all in
The wonder- the lives of the girls who had waited by doors
sat on floors- and wondered what the key really was
If salvation was imminent
and purification was expected

I could scream at the top of my lungs- finally
The city had caved, and the reverb had bounced off concrete
Too long- I’ve waited too long
To say all that I needed to confess
Let no body of any soul hear me-
I should seep into the soil once more before it is permanent
And nature be my witness- my soul
My apology would echo miles away
I had travelled through it all
It was hard enough to say

It would wander
As I would-
Misguided, but true
I had to grow
to explain my love for you

 

We Beg For Love

I looked different and stood in lines alone
looked in mirrors and cursed the fuzz, and those little bumps
the attributes of women, things explained on a chart
things written in pink
adorned with a heart-
And gambled, the excitement of the new path
but always afraid, they knew it better
they knew the terms and the words
they knew the hip
they knew the nerds
but we always miss the details
the haze in the eye
no one sees the grass between the trees.

They sit expectant and I look down
always playing it up, we chip our own marble
I don’t think we realize that mirrors are forever the eyes of others
waiting to see what you can do.
Some eyes don’t tear up in the presence of sadness
and we can watch others cry and plan the day ahead.
Sometimes,
You looked calm while I was bluffing
you just have to tighten your throat and out comes nothing.

I grew, and sat in beds with ugly sheets, not mine
dust settled on my hiding pose
and I got wiser, longer, kinder
listened to my thoughts, never ending prose.
We beg for love, and hurt ourselves
scan rooms to meet the eyes of others
give things we don’t have to gain things we don’t need
and feign a likability, our flesh as bait
We beg for love
and stay out late
I begged for love
but had to wait.

So many things no one will ever know
but the shame and excitement when we feel when we sneak behind others
her porn and his jars, cupboards, scars
and pictures, shots of squinting eyes and anticipation, bare flesh
they remind me of every picture I never sent-
where I begged for love
that I’d later repent.

I wish that somebody had explained that the hardest of times showed the actuality of love
And that I knew my mother,
I wonder if she ever saw the beauty resting upon the grime
and if she ever felt adoration and resentment at the same time.

 

Bio

 

Read more of Evie’s beautiful poetry here.

Image: Virgin and Child with Canon van der Paele | Jan Van Eyck (detail) | 1434-36

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