A child is learning African proverbs
A teenager is wearing a scarf like Tupac
and I have stopped making the bed
Nothing makes us change a poem like death
So that line about being glad you're gone,
today it is reborn as any icon should be
You pointed to the stars and all I saw was your hand
It's wrong for anyone to touch my scar without having seen the wound
and disposing of you while there is death here
That's the loneliest pot
crying out to one blackened kettle
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2 comments:
your wound is an open one, draining its grief through the dressings you apply trying to stanch its flow. nothing helps. loss, we learn finally, is the primary rhythm of life. but it strengthens us too, and makes the glory of living stronger, as we find a part of us lying down with others.
strong stuff, this one, and excellent work, supported primarily by its unflinching voice.
such are emotions...they amalgamate like mercury globules, clinging together, like memories from the past...
beautiful =)
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