The literary magazine of New Trier High School

Seven Little Rubber Bands

May 10, 2021

Seven little rubber bands
Looped about my little finger
Marked with scratches from the sand
As a cold hawk lingers
Do you ‘wait a fruitless path?
Father dear, your eyes are tired
Worked to death like dying fires
Finding silence doing math
Acting cold, like you’re hard-wired
Takes the room where souls can sprout
Think of me, your little girl
Waiting quiet, hair in curls
Whisked away as you just doubt
What life will spout
What time puts out.
Seven little rubber bands,
Snapping at my will
I spent them all without regret
And chances are that I’m its kill
Throat torn from a hawk that watches
Waiting for my blood to spill
My hopes and dreams and future too
Then my eyes water, heart can’t still
When Father snaps my quill like sticks,
A home for hawks, whose cries- so shrill
Seven little rubber bands
Seven little chances
Rotting in their flying dance
Instead of seeds, poured in our hands.
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