I keep her close to my chest, That writhing, raging, hateful fire.
Her limbs reach up from somewhere deep in my throat, To pepper my words with her bitter heat.
_Though I have been inflicted with unimaginable pains, _ _Though the sweetness of my trust has been defiled, _ _Though I have been wronged. _ __ _I have learnt long ago, _ _That there is no virtue in spitting the temperament of my vexation on others. _
However,
It is a sort of kindness to oneself, To fester in a body burdened with choler, Than to douse that vigorous swelter, And offer olive branches instead of kindling .
Of dirt, and of blood, and of life, The softness of a fossilized history, Embedded underfoot and renewed each spring.
With time, greedy tongues yearn for beauty, Turning clay for gold, for riches- for more, Hungry for the gift of life and plentiful.
Human hands turn to plough and harrow, Then to metal, and motor, and teeth, All to gut the earths loam of her offerings.
A desecration of organic bodies, A gluttony for her fruit, The life has been displaced from this dirt, And this time,
She will not return.
We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger, Pressing their steel toed boots into the flesh of our heels, Willing us to move forward.
We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger, Where even the best and brightest soon become corpses, The same in bones as common folk.
We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger, A constant reminder that we must outdo them in legacy and in life, To be better than our forbearers.
We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger, A land where nothing will ever leave and nothing new will be created, All that is was simply reinvented.
We live in a land where the footprints of ghosts linger, Where phantoms are preserved in namesake through theories and equations, Breathing only through the lips of new successors.
Perhaps we acknowledge these dirt bound patrons because we are afraid that we too will be nothing in the end, That our imprints only mar the earth if we leave something behind.
The quick to anger and the fast to forgive, An ouroboro of seasons, The hare surrendering to the fox time and time again, “I’m sorry for my hunger”, says the fox, “I forgive you”, the hare replies, -“devour my body”.
Scarlet leaves lay heavy like a body, The forest floor a carpet of caution, Step with velvet feet lest you wake the sleeping beast, “It’s my instinct to pounce”, says the fox, “I forgive you”, the hare replies, -“I’ll remain a mute”.
Fisted fingers mute the protests of the meek, Skin puckered with purple and blue, Or crimson like wine poured on pelts, “My hand acted of its own accord”, says the fox, “I forgive you”, says the hare, -“pain is temporary in the end”.
A quick end to a long beginning is preferred, To quickly split the thread that binds two bodies, The predator and the prey whom dance around a blazing pit, “I’ll kill us both if you leave again”, says the fox, “I forgive you” says the hare, -“I’ll dance until my feet bleed”.
Bleed the body to cure the ailment, There is no remedy to fix a terminal sentence, A domesticated rabbit would be easier to contain and easier to teach, “You should’ve done as I’d asked”, says the fox, “I forgive you”, says the hare, -“I have already lost my fight”.
An unmatched, unfair fight, Two creatures unable to tally a score, One will always have the upper hand and one will only be bones in the end, “I’m sorry” says the hare, But the dirt cannot speak, So the fox does not reply.
A threadbare red sweater with arms too long, A pair of frilly socks soiled with days of play.
A hiked hem brushing goose-bumped knees, A twisted tie with a knot drawn tight.
One could imagine these pieces of sentiment started all the same. A swath of cloth, A loom of thread, A stylized design, And nimble hands.
These articles of clothing seem to follow us wherever we go, Swaddling us on the best of days, And smothering us on the worst.
On those days, the worst of them, it’s easy to put a jacket or a pair of pants on trial. To belittle and blame them, And bleach them colorless with guilt.
There’s a cautionary tale perhaps, Woven through the seams of clothing, And looped around crooked buttonholes.
One could press warnings like iron marks on the hems of too short skirts, Or thread the importance of layers, layers, layers atop over-exposed shirt collars.
They could warn you of the betrayal of your favorite dress, Or suggest that maybe your pink palette should be muted. They could tell you that cotton and linen, polyester and rayon, are to blame for all your troubles.
But in the end a shirt is just a shirt, A skirt is just a skirt, And a red sweater is just a red sweater.
They are not words, They are not hidden innuendos, Or heavily veiled promises.
They are not mature consenting things who speak for their owners, Nor do they prove a body’s dishonesty under scrutinizing eyes.
There are no deviant suggestions buried under lace, Or unspoken conversations polished into belt buckles.
Clothes are not accountable for actions and words.
No, they are. I promise they are not.
They are just pretty articles of fabric, To cloak and cover vulnerable skin, To cushion and caress calloused heels or skinned knees.
They are, After all, Reconstituted filaments of cellulose, Synthetic woven cloth, Or natural fibers borrowed from the earth.
They are not at fault, They are not bad or wrong or untrustworthy, And they are certainly not liable for offense simply by existing.
I miss it sometimes still. Not the person themselves, But the intimacy of a bond that felt eternal. The desperation of high school friendship, So all encompassing, all consuming. You imagine they will take you from graduation to grave, A constant body sewn to your hip, Never to leave your side.
The foresight to imagine things outside closed environments is too foreign a thought for you still. You are as ignorant in your fugacious youth as you are hopeful. You have not yet learnt the ephemeral nature of teenage animosity.
It’s a wretched thing, going from twin flames to strangers.
There’s a coldness left behind from the absence of that raging fire of kindred kindling.
Sometimes, so many years later,
I almost turn to speak over my shoulder,
A fleeting comment or a shared joke.
But I am always surprised when I see there is no one there.
Not all was lost in our departure though,
Maybe in its passing there were some things that stood the test of time.
I still have the annotated books on my shelves borrowed from years ago,
The image of your print still lingers on playlists co-created in noisy lunchrooms,
And some moments are forever frozen on old camera rolls on uncharged phones.
So perhaps those juvenile affections were not unimportant after all. If friendships were worth something, I’d think that ours only grew in value after all this time. An antiqued thing that was always worth more as the years passed.
