http://slow.writerscafe.org/StephElizabeth The original writings of author StephanieElizabeth en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776190308 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Today I vacuumed right into the corners.Suck.Suck.Suck awayall the dust and hair I have lived in.I died this year.In April, I died.She took my body away in her arms.There was no plastic black sack, no shiny zip from a rusty factory.In her arms.Carried me.All the way to her mother's housean.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/765272/ There's a tide here too,in not-so menacing suburbia,prophylactics in the hedgerows(at least we keep it safe),the ebbing and flowing,fall and rise of puddles in the creases between the roadand in the convex between the curbs.Padlocks on an iron gate,a welcome sign by a wood.We herd her.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/681809/ I don't know. I actually do not know. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/668865/ I miss her. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/667689/ Addressed to a stranger. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/659200/ I learnt to read underneath you.Lined up our collarsas if we were fixing each other's ties.A school run at midnight;I am learning through dawn.Art assignmentsin the small of your back.Logic 101:A brush of your tongue.I am late for physical education.I undress and dress too slow.My shirt is inside-ou.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/647739/ Just like a Winter sun,enthralled in play in clouds,you are forgettingwhat your shoes look like,as they walk in puddles,ocean-wide. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/647738/ Ugh. Lordikins. This is what forced poetry looks like. Happy now, McLean? Haha... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/645502/ I inherited my father's face, I think. But my mother's eyes.And mouth.Which sounds odd, I know.They're the shape of my father'sbut the colour of my mother's.And my mouth is hers.But younger;Pinker.Has seen less smoking;has seen less wine. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/643076/ You learned to swim  long beforeyou'd ever met the water,and I recall a Winterin which you met the air.Sign a line on yellowed paperto call you ours and give a name.I remember your first day:I, and sticky, honey carpets,snatching at your clawsbefore you'd learnt to liftyour feet upon entering a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/643073/ Not quite prose, not quite poetry. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/StephElizabeth/643070/