The cemetery was a test of how long
I could hold my breath
How strong a superstitious heart fought
driving past its sword-tipped fence
every black stake a wrought iron second
without inhale
each a private hope to dodge a curse
disarm the haunt
The lines between floor tiles held spells
in grout like glue
so I skipped over cracks down long hallways
stayed clear within concrete blocks
like lily pads over raging waters
cautious leaps on clouds that kept me
in the skies
And I have yet to learn how to press roses in the dark
after wilting in the day
How to gauge the endurance of words
from damaged space
1 comment:
And I have yet to learn how to press darkness into the shapes of roses.
How to ask the darkness, beg of it, to emit the fragrance, not of darkness, but not of a rose ether, but of something in between... something that speaks of what it is to go from being one thing, and become another, to smell of change, of loss, of sorrow, of rebirth.
How to smell damage, folded into the shape of a swan. How to find the damage by its smell, recognize damage in its new shape, take its wings, and breathe beneath the folded damage, watching the wings spread, open, and sail up, up and then, of course, away.
Showing how the damage endures, and the damage is named, as a word, and is a word, and will endure
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