Little Things

Little Things

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I have developed a theory that different people love in different ways and in different amounts.

For example, my little sister shows me that she cares by bringing me glasses of water throughout the day and telling me that I am a "good potato."

I think that she is the purest form of love.

To contrast, my little brother loves by listening, closely and thoughtfully. 

He is good at pointing out possibilities you may have missed somewhere along the way, and if that is not enough,

if you need a little more,

he will pray for you.

I do not know many teenage boys who pray.

I think that I love quietly; in ways that some people might miss no matter how much I wish they didn't.

I love in the poems that I trace onto the car window as he tells me that he is trying;

I love through eye contact during sad songs and freshly baked bread on the weekends.

I love in little things, but I do not love a little.

Neither does my sister. 

Neither does my brother.

I suppose you could say that love runs in my family, and if that's not something to be proud of, I don't know what is.

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Forward Thinking

Forward Thinking

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

If they ever decide to pick apart my poems in classrooms,

if they begin to dissect my feelings,

peel back the layers,

unpack the similes,

cut up the metaphors,

break the words down until all that is leftover are definitions abd empty promises,

I hope that they find your name lit up in lights somewhere, and that they discover pieces of me scattered about in the aftermath of us.

I hope that all they find is love.

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