Bowling

A Poem

Quiet.

Strike.

Spare.

The machine whirrs, spitting

out balls, spitting out pins.

 

Spitting out memories.

 

My grandfather dropping, not 

throwing, the ball.

 

My grandmother’s holding the ball, 

making strikes without remembering 

the game.

 

And me,

my writing, breathing to think,

thinking to breathe, daydreaming

recipes and daydreaming to dream.

 

Dream to remember.

Remember to breathe.

This poem is from my self-published poetry War of Will, and can be found in our shop and Apple Books.

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2020 Marmosetic Wolves

  • Helena Ortiz's Facebook Page
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  • Helena Ortiz's Pinterest
  • Helena Ortiz's Instagram