For this week’s prompt, write a vacuum poem. Seems like every time I finish a big project (or challenge) there’s this vacuum ready to suck me into it. So I have to keep moving, or I’ll find myself staring into nothing for hours at a time. Your poem can be about this type of vacuum, a vacuum cleaner, or a vacuum-sealed container.
Compartmentalized
Perhaps it began the winter when
all the baby chicks died,
their tiny bodies, some yellow, some
black-feathered, were stiff and their legs
pointed straight up, minuscule feet raised
like hands that knew the answers. The coal-oil
lamp was still burning but it wasn’t enough–
the night had been bitter cold. Ice crystals
encrusted the wire that encased their small house.
As I walked back home, ice-coated twigs snapped
beneath my feet and grass hung its head, weeping
for them because I could not. My six years hung heavy
on bony shoulders. I carried their picture inside my
head until I found a compartment where it could fit.
Gently, it sealed itself with ice that would not melt.