Poetry by Heather Pease

               David Howard CC



​A Room Too Small 

I don’t remember the sun on my skin. 
There were no last wishes.
Nothing was supposed to be final       yet.

The urn selected/its home, 
a mantel. 
Someone said it would be heavy           after.

The door creaked. Its knob ached/ as it turned 
to a room not vast enough/ for all my sorrow. 
Time froze/escape closed behind me/ pulling all oxygen out with it.

The room - no bigger than a closet. 
There were no flowers to comfort/no chair to sit with my grief/ 
I didn’t notice tissues/sitting on a table. 

There was a window/the curtain on the other side. 
Nothing              under my control, 
the room was considerate/ in its consciousness.  

Someone out of reach drew drapes revealed my dad 
on a table/ scratchy/ starched sheet at his chest offered 
no comfort.

He looked cold; I had no blanket to give.  He should be sleeping 
in his favorite chair/ this room, this senseless --small room
full of silence. Not his snores/ I could hear my hands tremble.

I stared, anchored to regret /willing him 
to be miraculous/not 
become ash.




Rocks

I was only a pebble when my mom called me her rock;
as we buried ours.
Rocks crumble when the         earth quakes
Rubble left in the wake
The strength of my family 
turned gravel                 then sand 
sifted through hands                 reached out
once anchored in love.

Being a rock felt like being thrown through windows
everywhere I stepped--glass shards 
in a quarry of sorrow.

My father collected rocks, sorted, arranged them 
to lean on each other
building a future,            a community. 

You see, rocks must live together,
that’s why you see them in piles.
Laying in river beds shaping the world 
around them.
Creating mountains together.

Some rocks are worn on fingers
around necks to             glitter  and        dazzle
cherished for their beauty.
Others must be cracked open                to reveal a 
glorious inside.

Certain rocks are created with              intense force
pressure              folded                and crushed 
into a metamorphic form          of what they were before,
part of the original       but 
different.

I didn’t know what kind of rock to be                  for her.
Was I meant to build something new for us 
or roll away? Did she need me soft                      and smooth laying quietly; 
or hard and jagged like flint?
Inside I was shattered               into a million pieces.

I wasn’t ready to be a rock, 
I felt like a grain of sand
I was just           a person being strong 
because someone told me I was 
and I wanted to believe it too.

Heather Pease is a Poet focusing on work centering on feminism, sexuality, identity, culture, mental health, politics and domestic violence. Heather writes from her own experiences, aiming to give voice to vulnerability, making people think about subjects often stigmatized through society. She writes to empower others whose voices remain unheard. She lives in Orange County, CA.

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