96/365 - 101/365 || Blood Releasing Itself within Itself
We walk everyday
among our ghost memories,
wading through past tense
experiences, misplaced
moments. Poems never written.
•
grow dry in the night, casting
off moisture, slowly
transforming, shifting into
copies of my father's hands.
•
balances on suburban
backyard boundaries—
his savage poetry leans
from the fence— then leaps forward—
•
in the ears, a pressure change—
or blood releasing
itself within itself. Yet,
the pace of the night maintains.
•
along the garden stone wall
pausing long enough
to leave traces of his name—
small, watery graffiti.
•
The chimes likewise are quiet.
Only one light burns
in the house, here beside me—
and the sounds of you breathing.
Oh what a beautiful poem.
ReplyDeleteThe first stanza touches upon the feelings I was struggling to articulate in my own "status" post.
The second echoes the shock of seeing my own mothers face when I look in the mirror - the likeness increasing day on day.
"savage poetry" - this is the peregrine falcon which nests in the trees in the river valley just yards from my home - savage as it plucks pigeon dinners from the sky.
And that delicate loving last stanza.
It is enriching to read. Calming and reassuring. Thank you.
Appreciate your interpretations. Always glad to hear other people's perceptions of my work.
ReplyDelete