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Literature Text
dead men have been telling their tales, whispering
them through the mulch of autumn leaves. the clouds
tuck the stars into cotton beds and this serpent chorus
is their lullaby. their tongues get tangled, the stories jangle
like lost keys, a constant murmur hanging underneath the
lighter dirges of foxes, of crying birds, of headstones quietly
crumbling. I try to be polite, try to hear them out, but it
is a messy choir of regrets. working the graveyard shift,
I hear it all night, the bubbled notes of swallowed sobs,
“my kingdom for a horse, my kingdom for a hearse, my
kingdom in silent ruin now” as husband mourns his place
at the head of the table, grieves for the neck and shoulders
lost when a dagger in 1975 severed him from a wife and
two beautiful children; the carmine tones of love-infected
lilts, “a rose is a rose is a rose is a –“ as she lies dreaming
of wedding bands glistening in the compost of her riven
palms, I hear it all. the strains and strings, the same tunes
repeated from hundreds of mouths, “it was too soon, it was
too late.” but here I am, sat under the stars’ billowed sheets
and deleting your number from my phone, as the dead men
speak of love and loss in their cracked voices, and I am silent
and you are silent. and this grief sits between us like a gulf
six feet wide.
them through the mulch of autumn leaves. the clouds
tuck the stars into cotton beds and this serpent chorus
is their lullaby. their tongues get tangled, the stories jangle
like lost keys, a constant murmur hanging underneath the
lighter dirges of foxes, of crying birds, of headstones quietly
crumbling. I try to be polite, try to hear them out, but it
is a messy choir of regrets. working the graveyard shift,
I hear it all night, the bubbled notes of swallowed sobs,
“my kingdom for a horse, my kingdom for a hearse, my
kingdom in silent ruin now” as husband mourns his place
at the head of the table, grieves for the neck and shoulders
lost when a dagger in 1975 severed him from a wife and
two beautiful children; the carmine tones of love-infected
lilts, “a rose is a rose is a rose is a –“ as she lies dreaming
of wedding bands glistening in the compost of her riven
palms, I hear it all. the strains and strings, the same tunes
repeated from hundreds of mouths, “it was too soon, it was
too late.” but here I am, sat under the stars’ billowed sheets
and deleting your number from my phone, as the dead men
speak of love and loss in their cracked voices, and I am silent
and you are silent. and this grief sits between us like a gulf
six feet wide.
Literature
subjectification
I slept naked under the brush
of your december bluewhite erasure
knowing you were recreating earth
beneath a sheet of lithium carbonate
(taking some and taking some
to market)
I am sorry for the ghosts
left scratched into glass sculpture
for the salted moon and sugarglazed eyes
and all the little fibrous tears
muscles weary, november trembling
as a product of creation
for your exhaustion, as it extends
to every stroke and every color
for the stoking of the fire
before the coolwet winds of early winter
come and take me home
I didn't mean to leave, but you
were far too luminous to sta
Literature
liii.
while i sit in my crumpled shirt,
naked legs and bleached underwear
i ponder about silence and solitude
along with the brotherhood they share
they were the flat lines in heart monitors,
the shooting stars that happen behind your back
the budding flowers and sleeping children
the world that happens while you sleep
and like the ticking of the clock
they bear a loneliness
that was either too loud or unnoticed
Literature
traffic on the overpass under the fingernails
and while alacrity
is still
quite far out of reach,
my hands stretch, spreading out
like skeletal maps, each bone
finding breathing room, each vein
a highway being built
even as the cars continue to drive
(trying to fix a train as it moves down the tracks)
and they disassemble,
they pull themselves apart
at the joints,
to build a floating bridge of
little white hopes,
thin little ribbons
licking the potential
to fly
(but the road is anfractuous,
and they’ll drive forever,
circumnavigating the potholes
and finding their way back
to where they started)
our cognitive maps don’t h
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19/8
in paris, living opposite a cemetery, sleeping with ghosts of all the loves i could have breathed life into had i not buried them in the dirt entrenched under my nails, the usual.
Happy Halloweeeeeeeeeeen
Say Hello Gorgeous...one last time
in paris, living opposite a cemetery, sleeping with ghosts of all the loves i could have breathed life into had i not buried them in the dirt entrenched under my nails, the usual.
Happy Halloweeeeeeeeeeen
Say Hello Gorgeous...one last time
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Comments8
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Great work!