Kaila Donahue: Poetry Collection

Whispering Pines Estates

I: My parents joke about

How I was “a wild child” 

When we lived in the trailer 

Pizza box

On the stove 

Maybe it’s hunger,

Maybe it’s boredom, 

What I know now;

I was left alone 

Turn the knob

Cardboard lights ablaze 

“FIRE. FIRE. FIRE.” 

The voice says.

He rushes out

Awoken from his daze 

They thought it important 

To have a fire extinguisher on hand 

“What the fuck did you do?” 

It doesn’t end there. 

Cat litter sand castles

Hair snippets, green linoleum 

Sic the pitbull on the mailwoman, 

“I didn’t mean to, I swear!”

II: Place my hand on the stove top

That looks like spiders 

But feels like fire 

Blistering, blistering 

Hot concrete on newborn feet

Muffle my cries 

Don’t wake him

He just got back from overnights

Collapse in the back room

Smell seared flesh— 

Hide with the dusty treadmill

Where nobody will find me 

Mum’s working til’ five 

All I can do is muffle my—

I was SEVEN-YEARS-OLD

You were never around

Don’t you dare say: 

“You were such a wild child.”

Empty Words

I love the back-back seat

of Mum’s Ford Explorer 

Toys and coins and books and wrappers

in the front seat pockets 

Dirt and footprints and the debris of life

on the carpet

Chatter and melody 

all at once 

My sister secured in her car seat

beside me 

She was such a 

chubby, fierce thing

Look out the window

and imagine how even the 

fastest of wolves couldn’t keep up 

My belly is full

and life is promising 

Even though that rock

got stuck in my foot 

From the other children

pushing me too fast on the merry-go-round

Rock and all, I am safe

and I am loved 

Surrounded by those I 

care about most in this world

They test the strength

of every seatbelt 

Turn and chitter

about the

Apple orchards 

and cider donuts 

How we should all go together

again next year 

We haven’t gone again since.

The Old Man

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

What about that gentleman’s cataracts?

Or his face speckled white?

His thinning scalp, 

Smoother than it used to be 

That hunched man

Whose hands shake as he counts out the quarters, 

At the counter 

To pay for a bundle of red roses

I smile at him and he calls me “Dear”

People stare, snicker, and sigh

They grow impatient (intolerant) in the line from behind

I say aloud, “Don’t you worry Sir, take your time”

Customers? More like damned vultures. 

How much does it cost to be kind?

He’s lonely

No family or friends, 

Except for the memory of his wife

The kind man will walk to the 

Cemetery to give his gift 

And see his beloved Sally

I want to cry for him

He doesn’t have a phone,

He has no need

But in his wallet is a picture

Early 20s, brunette, sun-kissed skin 

And a wide, toothy grin—

I look like her.

The man gives me a single rose

(I hung it and preserved it and treasure it)

And when my fingers trace those fossilized petals,

I think about how 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

About the Author:

Kaila Donahue is a first-year at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts. She's planning to major in Community Youth Education Studies and to become a teacher. Kaila has been writing for seven years, but her love for poetry has been recently rekindled.