THIS IS A POEM ABOUT THE PALLID ASH OF BONES AND DAMAGE ON THE OUTSIDE 10.16.17

10.16.17

 

In the pallid ash of bones
we find proof of the fires
that burned them.
Steady grasp
steady night.
Bleed forward into light
as if the distance were a string
and you doll snagged onto it
hook, pull, defeat.
Steady night
steady hands.
Grasp at the frayed ends
of rags, as if time were cottonstrands
enmeshed in a festering wound
where the damage on the outside
had been done.
Steady hands
steady scream.
Be inducted into night
as if death were nothing
but a bride beside her father,
walking the aisle to exchange
hands.

 


Written at 9:32 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

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