It’s not easy to rise on a grey day
The devil holds fast to your eyelids
Save the date
In a red circle on glossy calendar
This day you shall
Unburden
With stones in your pockets
Submerge the doubt
Tickling in your throat
That pieces of meaning can stand in for truth
When a bouquet wilts and only dry reminder stills the base
Emptier than my arms, reacting to absense
As the schoolchildren leave the yard
Dusty from their tumult
Do they glance back over their shoulder like a bird?
See you standing beneath down pour
Holding residue like strips of meat
Curing
What ills you is the certainty
Falseness makes a bad vintage
Girls who weed too long in midday Caligula
Will grow taller and thinner as forced from their way
Toward falsetto
They strain the sewn parts, with urging and movement
Like clay hands reaching out
Molding ash into penitent figures
Marking desert with immobile reach
With yearning and hollowed reed of papyrus
Breaching water’s deception
As we crawled from the sea enveloped in birthing sack
The sea calls us back, to eat longing and kingship in her mighty mandible
For even rock becomes coral, the concha dual turning to infinitesimal
Pieces of you, sucked clean of game, rumored on tide
Like birth will always surprise the ill prepared part of us
Believing we are in charge
Reblogged this on TheFeatheredSleep.
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Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.
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