swollen and swelling: I am quite haunted
by myself. I want to bury seeds
into my very real knees, sprout gerber
daisies
to spruce the place. I try not to
remember
the scarlet rows, bruises I once
inflicted
on thighs and wrists where skin was
paper:
I am
haunted with how
do I forgive myself written
on the ceiling in ashes
that
fall into my eyes and answer:
the Forgiveness will happen
gradually-- a sprinkling
of salt into the folds until a day
it's happened : saturated/ you will float
in water you will no longer wound
yourself like a clock who needs
to be wound. It will be an Aegean kind
of existence-- the salt-forgiveness
so dense you're wombed
again. This time quiet. --No padded
thud of fist: no absorbed
anger. You know nothing, again : you
know everything, sizzle
new knees, eyes form and all is cloud,
halo and edgeless
you rest your comma-body below her
rib. And the world is paused for you
to be let in. The ocean is unknown by
you yet you are a part of
its blue-filled, holy goes on and on,
silver spirits flick
through your endless yet contained
inside the borders of your mother-land's pulsing.
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