Saturday, June 27, 2020
I Have Come
I have not come to lay the dust.
Oh, there is a sorrow for that,
Cracked like the horizon's fire
Running through park and tundra,
Memories of bones I'll squeeze
Bright against my marrow.
I have not come to press thorns
Through my palms or forehead,
Angels in the smoke blown out
Of life running through the blood
Marking me with those stories
Smelling of dead bonfires.
I have not come to remember.
I have come to breathe
Your past deep and release
The sweet, ashy exhale
Of our future.
So there are probably less melodramatic times to sit down to write a poem...but there is literally a Southern Gothic sky out there right now, the damp grass is practically warm as bathwater, and a haze of dust has draped itself over us like the concrete to which we're addicted in the puddled suburbs along the highway out of the City Itself. And the heat. And the creeping panic. And the stay-at-home orders competing with the mad laughter of those who are aggressively free. And the heat. And the concrete sky...
So, yeah. Melodrama it is, folks. Which means that I'm looking forward to all the ways this will be interpreted and set to words across The Sunday Muse this week and all the ways in which Poets and Storytellers will see the world differently so that I can change keys as another week becomes this present and I crawl closer to finishing? Drafting another section of? In Thornish, wringing out the melodrama before it becomes part of the story. *gasp!* *sigh* *evil chuckle*
Hope you're having a good week!