Poetry By Gretchen Filart

     robin_ottawa CC




A kiln for wounds

I love you firstly because your wound and mine are twins
at their conjoined openings we took off 
our shoes and entered them, like mourners
praying in a temple

our shaky fingers gently
palpating their depths
for darkness instead 
we found a kiln

we knelt before each other, meditating 
in their sacred gaping
I press a gauze on yours
you press one on mine

sometimes the gauze is one pulling a chair 
next to the other, 
silently in front of the kiln
sometimes a poem with grief 

sighing between ellipses
sometimes a call gifted amid tears
no one ever said my wound sounds better
or mine deserves the bigger gauze

this is our sorrow
but also our gratitude:
we walk away carrying the wisdom 
of each other’s wounds

Nab, we have slipped our shoes back on 
but we are no longer strangers
take off your shoes when loss comes 
itching to peel off the scab

keep warm in front of our kiln
there's an empty seat waiting for you, and a letter 
that says thank you for the light of 
your wound that became my eyes

​

​
Gretchen is a writer based in the Philippines. She is Mama to her daughter Lia, slave to her cats, and black coffee and hiking companion to friends. She lives for trees, oversharing, and masterful storytelling, and doesn't take life seriously.

You can read her work on Rappler and The Philippine Star; upcoming on Janus Literary and Asam/Garam.

Say hi on Instagram @ourworldinwords_ or Twitter @gretchenfilart, or through her website www.ourworldinwords.com. ​