Poetry by Emily Broderick

Night of the Ball
by Emily Broderick

On the day of the ball,
I took your hand and led
you to the cemetery
where you lost your glass slippers once,
and maybe a little more
when the sun was still up
and your mother was still alive.

I wanted to show you the ghosts
that blink like fireflies to find
their true loves in the shadows
of the tree planted before the
city was reduced to rubble
and I became a memory.



Richard Brautigan
by Emily Broderick

“Please”

Do you think of me
as often
as I think
of you?
           
                 —Richard Brautigan


You’re reduced to an epigraph,
Richard, but at least you
know you’re on my mind.

Richard, I still don’t know
why you killed yourself
six years before I was born
to appreciate you.

You once said,
“All of us have a place in history.
Mine is clouds.”
and I think that’s your way
of begging to be in a place

where love works out
and the colors all blend together
and there are no heartbreaks
and no .44 magnums.

2 years ago 

My Eyes are the Atlantic Ocean by Emily Broderick

My grandfather was alone when he died,
although my mother pretends he wasn’t.
She picks through his closet with
hands that weren’t holding his when
his eyes stopped drinking in the sun.

I take the small, yellow suitcase
from under the bed before she can
find a heritage that doesn’t belong to her.

My grandfather once told me
that his mother was a seal
and I believed him because our
blood tasted  like salt.
In the middle of the night
he taught me how to hear the ocean
hundreds of miles from the shore.

The bus’s exhaust almost masks
the smell of brine,
but it’s already been waterlogged into my senses.
The sealskin is warm
and I feel it breathe, its wet nose.
It fits me like a glove.

Onto salt seas
I am bound for to go.

2 years ago 

Track Six by Emily Broderick


The booklet in the CD case
declares that it might
be you playing the bass
on the sixth track of your brother’s
self-titled album, recorded probably
in Hotel Grand Number 51,
South Corridor Street, Reacher’s Park,
East Georgia, in a room with a view.

I’m half sure they’re right,
but half positive they aren’t,
because no one’s seen you
in seven years, and I’m pretty sure
that’s not long enough
to have gotten that good.

Especially since you promised
you’d never play again
after your uncle Paul gave up the ghost,
although I’ll be the first to admit
you never keep your promises.

2 years ago 

When the Water Engulfs by Emily Broderick

I’ve always wanted to tell you
that as the water envelops me,
like the cool hands of a mother
on a fevered brow,

I sing a love song

to the beat of soft ripples
my hands create
as they gently slice the stillness.

It’s always been a
a love song to you,
although I’ve never known you

2 years ago 

Walt Z by Emily Broderick

Whitman, I hardly know you,
I admit, but I write to you.

Would you have liked that?

Grey-bearded grandfather,
you are like a mentor, a guide,
standing next to me on the riverbank
holding Charon’s lantern and pole,
pointing into the darkness with great excitement,
waiting for me to see the beauty
you’ve noticed for years.

2 years ago 

Poetry by Emily Broderick
My Eyes are the Atlantic Ocean by Emily Broderick
Track Six by Emily Broderick
When the Water Engulfs by Emily Broderick
Walt Z by Emily Broderick

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The Collegian is a feature publication at Washington College in Chestertown, Maryland. The Collegian is published monthly. We print writing and artwork from students at Washington College. To submit e-mail collegian_editor@washcoll.edu

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