Julia Gaskill
what happens when the fire falls in love with you.
When the nightmares come,
Ginny learns the best thing to do is to lay an arm across his waist
and run the fingers of her unused hand
through his always-messy hair; a
hummed tune calmly floating from her throat.
When he screams in his sleep, she pulls him closer,
kissing the back of his neck to usher him away from the darkness.
It’s exactly what she wishes someone had done
when the nightmares came for her at twelve.
When the silence overtakes him
at the breakfast table, jam dripping off his toast as he stares across
the room like the Dark Lord just waltzed in,
Ginny asks him questions to bring him back to earth.
She asks how Neville’s getting on in his new position,
what he thinks of her soon-to-be sister-in-law’s wedding plans,
where Luna’s at in the world nowadays, and
of course she knows. She always knows the answers, but
it’s better to keep his mind distracted. She knows that
this is the only way he’ll survive.
When the tears overtake his entire face in
the middle of the grocery store, she doesn’t ask what triggered
this sudden shift. Perhaps the little golden boy
at the end of the aisle reminded him of another
who once wielded a camera or the clerk who just posted how
there’s a sale on socks; maybe
it’s just the overwhelming sense that the muggles surrounding them
will never know what it is they went through. Ginny doesn’t
shirk away or snap. Instead, she offers him her palm,
running her thumb over his knuckles as she squeezes,
never once letting her blazing eyes leave his face.
When he drops onto their couch,
hardly awake due to the exhaustion of yet another interview,
she follows suit, throwing herself nearly on top of him.
It always pleases her if a laugh leaves his lips,
and soon her arms find their way about his neck.
Through their laughter, she places a kiss on his forehead
where the reminder, the proof, still lingers,
as if to say, “I’ve got you now. Don’t you worry,
I’ll kill anyone who ever tries to take that smile away.
I’ll burn them to the ground before
they can even touch you,”
and she means it
with all her heart.
When the nightmares come,
Ginny learns the best thing to do is to lay an arm across his waist
and run the fingers of her unused hand
through his always-messy hair; a
hummed tune calmly floating from her throat.
When he screams in his sleep, she pulls him closer,
kissing the back of his neck to usher him away from the darkness.
It’s exactly what she wishes someone had done
when the nightmares came for her at twelve.
When the silence overtakes him
at the breakfast table, jam dripping off his toast as he stares across
the room like the Dark Lord just waltzed in,
Ginny asks him questions to bring him back to earth.
She asks how Neville’s getting on in his new position,
what he thinks of her soon-to-be sister-in-law’s wedding plans,
where Luna’s at in the world nowadays, and
of course she knows. She always knows the answers, but
it’s better to keep his mind distracted. She knows that
this is the only way he’ll survive.
When the tears overtake his entire face in
the middle of the grocery store, she doesn’t ask what triggered
this sudden shift. Perhaps the little golden boy
at the end of the aisle reminded him of another
who once wielded a camera or the clerk who just posted how
there’s a sale on socks; maybe
it’s just the overwhelming sense that the muggles surrounding them
will never know what it is they went through. Ginny doesn’t
shirk away or snap. Instead, she offers him her palm,
running her thumb over his knuckles as she squeezes,
never once letting her blazing eyes leave his face.
When he drops onto their couch,
hardly awake due to the exhaustion of yet another interview,
she follows suit, throwing herself nearly on top of him.
It always pleases her if a laugh leaves his lips,
and soon her arms find their way about his neck.
Through their laughter, she places a kiss on his forehead
where the reminder, the proof, still lingers,
as if to say, “I’ve got you now. Don’t you worry,
I’ll kill anyone who ever tries to take that smile away.
I’ll burn them to the ground before
they can even touch you,”
and she means it
with all her heart.
#LeaveSansaStarkAlone2k15
I'm sorry for the way
they paint bruises and wounds on your skin
only to call them
battle scars; how they
sing their love
of your femininity, only to take you
out of a den of lions and place you into
a valley of murderers. Your strength
is unlimited and I do not need to be reminded
by some douche bro on my Facebook wall
about how you will be fine; how
you will survive yet another season.
I know this like the lifelines on my palms: how
you will rally the North, not
be made puppet by a monster. You
have been through too much
to break under such weight, but that does not excuse
the choice that was made.
You understand war too well for one who's never
touched a blade. There hasn't been a time
since you embarked from home
where your life has
not been in peril. Forced to sit
idle while the number of wolves in your pack have
dwindled, all while knowing the back of a hand,
clothes torn from your body, lips pressed to yours that you
never asked for -
Little Dove, you have such strength in your grace, but
that is not enough to temper the swell of my anger.
That the gods of your fate
would offer you up on a platter for the sake
of easy writing; for the titillating thrill of good ratings. They
make a meal of your carnage
even though your flesh is already so poorly patched
together. It is clear in this twist how
they've never once cared about your character.
So I'm sorry for yet another season, despite
how things could have been different
this time; how you
might have been happy.
I suppose it was all too much to ask for.
The chance for a direwolf to be set free.
The chance for a dove to escape the hunters.
The chance for a girl to be safe for once.
I mean, really,
who would want that on their TV screens anyway?
I'm sorry for the way
they paint bruises and wounds on your skin
only to call them
battle scars; how they
sing their love
of your femininity, only to take you
out of a den of lions and place you into
a valley of murderers. Your strength
is unlimited and I do not need to be reminded
by some douche bro on my Facebook wall
about how you will be fine; how
you will survive yet another season.
I know this like the lifelines on my palms: how
you will rally the North, not
be made puppet by a monster. You
have been through too much
to break under such weight, but that does not excuse
the choice that was made.
You understand war too well for one who's never
touched a blade. There hasn't been a time
since you embarked from home
where your life has
not been in peril. Forced to sit
idle while the number of wolves in your pack have
dwindled, all while knowing the back of a hand,
clothes torn from your body, lips pressed to yours that you
never asked for -
Little Dove, you have such strength in your grace, but
that is not enough to temper the swell of my anger.
That the gods of your fate
would offer you up on a platter for the sake
of easy writing; for the titillating thrill of good ratings. They
make a meal of your carnage
even though your flesh is already so poorly patched
together. It is clear in this twist how
they've never once cared about your character.
So I'm sorry for yet another season, despite
how things could have been different
this time; how you
might have been happy.
I suppose it was all too much to ask for.
The chance for a direwolf to be set free.
The chance for a dove to escape the hunters.
The chance for a girl to be safe for once.
I mean, really,
who would want that on their TV screens anyway?
Julia Gaskill is a writer, photographer, theatre-doer, and professional daydreamer. When she’s not co-running her Muppet podcast (Frog Kissin') or writing for Tough Pigs and Portland Book Review, she can be found performing on the Portland Slam Poetry stage. She's had two poems appear on Voicemail Poems and recently co-featured at the Boise Grand Slam.