micropoetry page 02Mature

My body is a house still burning
with the fires we set inside of it
when we were young and our hearts
were still wild with the war drums,
dancing in the glow of the fire like
we knew destruction and we mistook it
for beauty.


We are flowers in the mid-day desert sun,
not so much wilting as withering, as
fading into a dry hollowness that catches
the wind and makes it sing low, sweet songs
meant to draw in men like wild prey
- but there is no one here except us.
Listen to it again, she says, I think
it’s singing something different.  Don’t you
hear it?


It’s inescapable,
the way silence ticks in the background -
not so much the absence of sound
as turning up the volume on lesser noises.
I know my heart is beating
but it feels like it is tearing itself in half,
wracking its rage against my ribs,
feverish with loss and fury, just wild
to get out and it’s all I can do
not to let it.

The End

7 comments about this poem Feed