I draw my pale thoughts over my head like a blanket and wonder if the discomfiture ever gets softer on the heart see I've learned why the heart beats against the chest wall, it is a war drum on the front lines of my thoughts the harbinger before the marching towards the skin and the vessels and the hair. at first, I wanted my skin to stretch like the tendon of a blue sea to make room for all of the ache, but now I want to be small, to shrink and slip through the eye of an needle and take less space and air than everyone else in the room I dream of being the first atom to split; of being swallowed by a beach pelican, and spat out like tiny fish bones he couldn't devour; there are so many unfinished poems in my chest, I'd like to think my body is an unfinished poem that I am writing, and that one day maybe not every poem will be about my body, but they will be about the mountains and rivers I command to rise in the softest parts of me; I hope you are commandi...
Beware they tell you upon entering a war torn country it is twisted and strange not to mention the twisted braids of bodies knotted to each other like bits of bloody ribbon tied together and the strange silence of the afflicted who look at you tranquilly as their arm dangles by its veins but I acquainted myself with disbelief for I saw thin, but alive children tussling among the sands stark feet smacking the land like heartbeats chasing after a ball of some sort in play dust and earth rising in clouds around their dancing bodies as dirt caked their cheeks like war stripes I made my way to a small child who was about to kick the object to a goal and thought that the tragedy of civil war was nothing but a false front but my taste of conflict turned out to be as small as the children's bones which clacked together like bells when they ran for when I looked down at the feet of the children their feet were saturated with strange things such as blood one child's fo...
I stand on my toes, on a box, on top of a wheeled chair to reach the clock high above me, so that I can cut the whiskers of it off with a pair of gardening scissors. But I hear a knock at the door and it is present standing in the way holding a fish, she hands it to me, so I ask her what to do with it, she tells me she knows that everything the birds say really matters to me that she knows that I count and store every breath that the trees release, in an empty peanut butter jar under my bed, but that I could not remember my first cold water, there was no recollection of my first bright moon. She tells me to hold the fish and decide what it means to me in terms of love, so that I will remember when I leave this room, and when I go to sleep, that I once loved something new, and small, and grey, and something that had scales and looked nothing like me, and I didn’t know where it came from or where it would go from there, but that that di...
Comments
Post a Comment