If I give everything I am to you what will be left to sustain me in the afterglow of rapture; to quiet the hunger beneath my skin when the inevitable untangling of tendons leaves me astray of those who once called my harbour home; an empty shell returned to the careless arms of the ocean?
As sure as every song starts and ends with silence no matter the delicious chaos in between, we will rise. As sure as the tide will kiss eternity at dusk no matter how many times it has been pushed away, we will rise. As sure as those with Hatred in their ear will tell us to stay down no matter that it’s them who long to fall, we will rise.
They hear the threat of her click-clacking approach long before they look at her, believing that she balances on blades for their pleasure when what she really wants is to be six inches closer to the sheet of glass above her head with visions of destruction; a kaleidoscope of possibility.
Every time I write my name and feel your lineage draw me into the earth like the great roots of a tree, I wish I’d thought to bring an axe so that I may let fly the blood-red sap they harbour, loaded with the acidic tang of bitterness that could burn me to absolution.
They talk of getting blood from a stone but what of finding a single star in a constellation, luring the tip of an iris from beneath a lid, or birthing a voice from years of gestation? Perhaps some cocoons are just too warm to leave; some secret wings too paper-thin to last against the bite of the wind. Better to live in the shadow of a coward’s heavy lungs than face the wrath of lips that will not accept betrayal. “Gone is gone,” they say, your words weaving themselves into iron bars of no return.
It’s a sorry state of affairs
when slipping into nightmares
is preferable to an evening
in front of the news;
the absurdity of fiction
an easier guest to accommodate
than the truth that lurks
outside the window
begging for attention;
tap, tap, tap.
They bundled her into the back of the police car; all six feet of her Amazonian beauty marched to a whispered soundtrack of accusations. I couldn’t tell if the click, click, click was the sound of her heels on catwalk-concrete or the readying of fingers on canisters of pepper spray; the look of discomfort on her face the sign of embarrassment or a need to empty her bladder. Perhaps it was both.