H.E. Grahame

Smooth As Love, by Fabrice Poussin



At The Lake

We stood on the balcony,
the cold air biting at our
bare feet and arms.
We could hear the water dancing with the rocks
and sand on the beach that stretched lazily near us.
The dark of night was heavy as it tugged on the
edges of the sky,
pulling it toward the inky lake.

We exhaled foggy breath into the darkness,
inhaling the sparkling stars into our lungs.
We stood there, in the dark breathing
ink and glitter
like we had when we began,
no longer just dancing
yet forever filled with
movement and song.

A bright star suddenly streaked thought the night,
it’s silver tail painting the canvas
with a delicate stroke.
Dancing in the onyx sky for
you and me.

Into the Clouds

I was loved, safe in Her wise warmth
While my mother and her fists assailed me
While my mother and her words drowned me
While my mother became the monster she was
Abuse besieged my young body
Leaving my pale skin blotched and broken
Leaving my eyes red and sad
Leaving my voice silenced and afraid
I grew wings, safe in Her compassion and love
When She acquainted me with music
When She taught me how to swim
When She saved all my crayoned stories
And I flew up into the clouds
And I never said goodbye
I stayed quiet, safe in apathetic angst
When the monster pushed Her under the water
When the monster banished Her into the cold
When the monster berated and belittled Her delicate frame
Disease invaded Her small body
Leaving Her paper skin strained and broken
Leaving Her eyes dark and blind
Leaving Her voice shaky and afraid
I hid away, safe in circumstance and guilt
While the neglect and the disease overtook Her
While the sorrow and loneliness drowned Her
While the monster destroyed all that She was
And She finally flew away into the clouds
And She never said goodbye

In the Red Chair

Grandma and I
Sat together in the too-big, too-plush
scarlet chair
beside the Christmas tree
waiting for Santa to come.
Grandmaunfolded each color-filled page while
I pointed my tiny fingers at glossy
snowflakes and train tracks. My hot-chocolate
eyes danced through polar wonderlands
with North Pole characters.
My squishy little cheek pressed against
Grandma’s woolly sweater, breathing
in the scents of paper pages, rose perfume and
Christmas Eve.
Grandma and I
Dreamed together in the fat,
raspberry chair
beside the star-freckled tree.
Waiting for the train to come.


H.E. Grahame is a writer and poet with work featured in Folio, Z Publishing House’s Emerging Poets and Writers series, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, and SLCC Anthology. She is a student at the University of Utah in the Writing and Rhetoric Studies program, minoring in Gender Studies with an A.S. in Psychology from Salt Lake Community College. Additionally, she works as a writing consultant and as a publications coordinator for SLCC’s Student and Community Writing Centers. She enjoys cooking, travel, photography, music, and words. (www.HEGrahame.weebly.com)