Grown Home

by | Oct 5, 2021 | Issue Twenty Three, Poetry

Fire in the bookshelf,
down low, asking
How long will you keep on asking?
My hands never grew completely
even into the waiting. Waterfalls without a tongue.
It’s sick to be alone in this room
and not recognize anyone.
Imagine the beast shot, turning.
Empty heart.
I lashed
until the horse ran fast,
blinked as it looked nowhere,
broke open full of flower stems.
There’s so much I need
I think I need some space.
I blew the haze away
until it was just me there, threading. Shaken,
caving. It’s night,
it’s simple, get back
at sleeping.
At least, promise you’ll follow
me underwater;
say you’ll tidy me up once I’m done
looking fruitlessly.
You won’t be able to tell what for,
which way the light turns.
Yell at me if you do.
I think then, I could die there.
The floor is tired,
looking back at me, slammed.
How long
I’ve angled myself so
the light catches me over;
picks me to finish it.
Just for me to forget
language
by the end of it.
I need these legs
only to crawl out,
be carried and drowned
in any leaffall that could close
my eyes, finally.

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