Since I've been posting my stories and poems online, I've met a lot of wonderful writers. That is why I have decided to do an author/poet spotlight whenever I meet a truly remarkable individual over the web. I'll do an online interview with them, and post some of their content, and links so you can read more of their work.

Today's poet is Emily T.

Enjoy!
Rosi

***
The Accident The doctor stuck the scalpel into my father’s tattered leg like the aproned tattooed muscle men did behind the counters of butcher shops at the grocery store.
He dug around the hole in his knee like hamburger meat,Pale pink tendons pulling taut against the foreign object;Serenaded by the sound of the IV keeping time Like a dire biological metronome. 
To my six year old brain,Traced thick in wide crayons,Cheerios still caught in the folds of the layered lobes,It was hard to imagine what could have caused it,
What could’ve splattered crusted red scars Over his half shaven face.What could have made his glasses break instantly,Making him temporarily blind.
What could have made his limbs, bent tightly like mangled McDonald’s straws,Tangle so strangely in the gory modern art display of flesh and silver paper balls?
When the doctors said ‘there’s nothing more you can do,’ my mother drove us back.Silver car moving slower than usualThrough the highway patchwork of exhaust fumes tail pipes and phone calls.
After a moment she looked overAnd saw my eyesWideNot blinking for minutes at a time.
She asked me if I was all right, but I said nothing.I was afraid if I lost focus of the dark gray streetIf I looked away even for a moment
Then an asphalt monster would rise from the depths of the tar and the potholes.
It would pick us up like ants and toss us down, Twist our limbs and crack our joints like brutal two years old with Barbie dolls
Just as it did to him.So I didn’t blink .Instead I looked from tire to tire as the world raced by,Each car becoming another robotic tumbleweedOn the long winding road of a million Tiresias’s, Blind to the dangers Right under their feet.

***

Counting Down To Midnight I could never find my pulse,but tonight I can hear my heartbeat.I grasp my head with my hand, use my blue laced inner wrist as a kind of fleeting pillow and suddenly, I can hear it.A telegraph tapping strange SOS signals over my hardwired arteries.I can feel my chest move like a nine years olds bike going over the edge of a stunt-ramp. A big BUMP BUMP of rubber tires, But a shaking feeling of rusted handlebars;the simultaneous power of motionand the fear that any moment it could fall. I grip my hair and try not to lose it This proof of myself, lurching underneath thin skin Thinking maybe if I can grasp onto mineI can find you in some briny pond of a dream,put my hand on your thin wristand then, with rusted fingers, grasp gently onto yours. 



***


The History Professor  He had a cavernous voice;One that resonated deep in his throat But stopped one echo too short in the air,The oscillation pulled taut against thick calcium stalagmites.
The turns he took on his dirt road mind,The manipulations he played Like splintering keys on a paper piano,framed his thoughts expertly,Like a wax laurel wreath on a Grecian statue.
Students stare with blank dry erase eyes hazily As he paces back and forth of the podium like a queen’s sentinel.
You couldn’t tell where his speech startedAnd where his story had ended,Smooth words like a tidal wave, sitting regally on a San Franciscan Atlantis.
I pay more attention to his voice than to his speech--
Perhaps that was what he meant
When he said everything was poetry.

*To read her interview. Click here!