Willow trees, hang you low.
You always weep.
A characteristic of deep, dark minds
I do not understand, for
I am merely a child.
I sit at your feet, begging you to shed light on my naiveté.
In four ways, please
Shed light on my naiveté.
“There is a noose,” he said.
“Slapped-wrapped ‘round my neck.
Free it, will you?
Let me breathe, for
my lungs and oxygen were once the
Best of Necessary Friends.”
I ought to have let him choke.
I ought to have filled him with kerosene
and lit him up before a willow tree.
His eyes were caked in indigo-cyan-cobalt-violet
There were crimson bracelets round his wrists.
Strange a man should wear those bracelets, I remember thinking.
He called me “Innocence” and let me trace
the stems of red around his murderous hands.
There were slashes in his soul
And tears running red down his skin.
He was battered. Tattered. Sha
ttered like a vase.
A rope wrapped round a vase,
the neck of the vase.
I remember marks there
You said they were from a too-tight collar.
Some too-tight collar it turned out to be.
Things dangle from willows;
perhaps this is why they weep.
We used to swing as children;
now, you swing as a corpse.
Willow trees hang you low.