“There is No Way Through: Crawl Under.”
A poem about cycles: good and bad.
Published in
Oct 17, 2020
More years beneath my belt, more pleasure in the bite of the cold-
Like the jaws of a playful hound around my arm.
I have marveled in pain for an eon, but bliss
has dripped itself into my tongue
and I am no longer collapsing:
collapsing into a heap- a puddle of self.
More years I will not wait-
Taken my soul and clogged it with another.
I did not water it.
I did not have patience with it.
I did not love it anymore.
It sat in my own wound and did nothing to heal it.
Love is a cannibal, the way she eats away at another human.
She leaves nothing but bones and guts the host.
Is this the same euphoria seconds before death?
I am not pure I will never be!
I want to rest beneath the roots of trees, I will become a dove.
