Someone I love is dying.
There is no poetry in this
no glib or beautiful eulogy
just the heaving sigh of knowing
and the story to be told.
Last night in dreams I stood by the window and watched you walk up the hill
the snow was deep, swirling around your legs.
I pressed my face against the glass and tried to will you back
but the snow had filled your tracks
and there was nothing but blinding, white absence.
It snowed today.
Icy snowflakes touched my face.
They tasted like sorrow
like pennies in my mouth.
Tonight begins the stitching.
Small black words sewn together
your tracks going up that hill.
I lost my soul.
In a moment of flawed humanity
I threw it at somebody’s head.
It made a sound like breaking glass when it hit the wall.
Take all the things you feel
until they are as smooth as commonality.
Stop singing in the streets.
Keep your eyes downcast.
Soothsay only in a whisper
too low to be heard.
Take these words
black and black typed on white
start a funeral pyre.
History, memories, dreams
wrap yesterday’s fish in them.
Sweep up broken glass
lorianne would like to buy a small monkey if they are not too expensive and put him in the basket of her poetry bicycle, then ride around in big, lazy circles while wearing a pair of combat boots and a sun dress with no panties. You can find her (and her poetry bike) @ http://13stitches.ning.com/