the maternal bond
of hands veered away in fright
are skin thin strings gone astray
word collection of time and thought
the maternal bond
of hands veered away in fright
are skin thin strings gone astray
glistening waters
mingle with evening’s last light,
minutes to sundown
your presence, veils
the tip of my tongue
with shards as gracious
as a slippery butter knife.
these are the days – unfiltered mouthfuls of air, an unremitting force in and through your system. water breathes through you, bearing a resistance similar to a blunt knife slicing into an ice block of defrosting butter. today, the air we gasped upon each inhalation was an age old carousel of stale recycled waste. still, I got up and went on with the business of – living.
reminding myself of the lives built on love and sacrifice, unceasing suffering and a singular lotus, abloom in the gunk of brown mud. towards sleep, I watched as your eyes grew themselves deeper into the trudge of an elongated well. held back the coins i had wanted to toss into the maker of untold dreams and fervent prayers. listened, as the pitch of your voice sloped into a parched damp of burdened worries. there has been such struggle in my daily doings, simple gifts such as listening, speaking, eating, moving is tied to an invisible thread, threatening to snap at the softest jolt, a gentle tap.
then, i spoke to myself in the dark. it is not in spite of suffering, that we grow. it is because of it, through it, and with it. warmed this illusion, in the heart of my palm as the adulterated faith within me, drifted.
embrace me
with the wrath of
your wicked sense.
between the blades of
hunched shoulders, weighs
the capacity of all that has
been hidden; left unturned.
my palm, a gentle smear
across the wells of your
hollowed cheeks, such that
all doubt and fear may be
cast out, it’s presence;
displaced
I, ground my knees as
etchings into oiled wooden
planks; as the soil of my
sorrow drips, filling the fine
lines of our foundation.
the eventual decay
of mortality, fills my
mouth like a flock of
white doves; leaving
our palms clasped in an
uneasy disposition, and
fingers wound into a spiral
of enclosed memories; are
these the only tell tale signs
we know of well-kept silence?