(Published in The WEIGHT Journal)
do you remember me, sycamore? i was with you
just three springs ago
i miss drifting through this world in blind ecstasy
since then i’ve become what i fear most
not a tyrant, not a murderer
but a poet.
sycamore,
there’s a hole in my tongue the size of a penny
that i should have filled in long ago
i feel it against my tongue every time i spit
my sour words, bitter lies,
confessing like a sinner.
now i stand under you, sycamore tree, i peer up
through shrubbery and ambrosian flowers like a telescope
dappled sunlight filters through, wraps me
in forbidden warmth that i have forgotten
due to years of hypothermia infections
do you see me, sycamore?
i begin to dig deep into my chest. besides me stands
a theatre of a thousand ghosts only i can see
they watch me with fastidious eyes
invisible fingers roaming my skin
they ask me
“what have you buried?”
but i cannot reply, i left that answer
thousands of miles and a lifetime ago
finger raking through muscle, sinew and alloy bone
i finally let the seeds of my secrets spill out
staining the soil with insidious ruby red ink
i let roots take me as a sacrifice
sycamore, let me in again despite
all of me, all of my actions
i reach out to you from this state of half life half consciousness
make no mistake,
i want to be one with the earth.
The Magpie Blog 