by Ashley-Elizabeth Best
In the morning's breath of mist I stare at the sea
that tells me nothing. I pound clothing into a scarp
of slatted rock, water seeping into porous stone.
The winds hunted howl of sound disguises his approach.
Calm with experience, my voice slowly breaks out of its
own heaviness.
He's promenading in the hang of blue fog, I conjure
the ground as I walk towards him. He's saying something
about god's that live in the trees but I know only of the
sea.
I unbutton his shirt, uncover the wound so beautiful it is
forgotten in its loveliness.
He was smiling in the way I fear, shrugged himself nearer
like a thing waiting to be hurt. A gasp of time, pink forage
made a quick flush on my face where his mouth disgraced.
The tragic consequences of his presence suffocates, nearly
reveals the wealth of hate in me. What was Eve's apple of
choice? This must be mine.
There is much in me to be forgiven. My deciduous memory,
pleasure-flawed in the slow everlasting disease of grief.
I promise to tell him as much as I know.
The life in me trembles to the life in him.
No comments:
Post a Comment