That July left a stain on her underwear—then-criminal, locking her wide, tearful eyes with its face, red with anger. She screamed with wounds, clawing the body that betrayed her, an attempt to claw out the bodies that broke into her eight years ago in a thicket sick with darkness. Honey, you’re a woman now (when […]
why do you reach for me?
With your little broken fingers,
many and confused,
you reach for me through bandages
into my vast and open wounds.
I am in their cellar on their bed but all alone,
however hearing whispers of the dead beside me.
Your breath is at my ear, and you are near me:
My legs are heavy, and your twisted fingers
Are reaching towards my head.
I see your crooked handprints on the walls,
and your fingers crawl to me when other people saw me
as far too leprous to love or hold.
Your face is starless like the skies I dream about,
and when people lose me in the Light,
you find me in the cold.
You laugh the laugh that I do:
In cellos and in pianos in slow minor key,
but we are major players in a cellar by the wayside.
Forgotten, feared, and only broken by a fire or a charge,
so, baby, why still reach for me?
The Light has not yet changed her tune.
She does not love me.
I may cry as she cries when her life began:
an orchestra of cymbals; destruction and repair,
but, baby, she casts herself away from me,
and you know you cannot chase her for me.
We both chase her away.
You and I don’t live the linear, my love.
There is no line for time for where we’re from.
In many memories, we are each other’s caterpillars,
but in many more, we’ve died the metaphor:
As moths, both chasing fire in our dreams.
And so, from the cellar of this house we’ll climb
feeding on each other as we have for so many of our lives.
Your crooked hands will carry me,
my heavy legs will give you feet,
and we’ll take wing in search for flame upon the open door.
We will live and we will die the metaphor.