Seth Sawyers CC
things i must say before i leave
i. there’s a myriad of hyperboles i keep in
this little cardboard box where the rings
that turn my fingers green get ready for
burial. one night i gathered some of the
oldest stars god was selling & flinged
them to encrust onto my newly gouged
wound. the phonemes in pilgrimage
loiter like beheaded phantoms behind
ii. the doors you left ajar, their voices my only
testimony. my mother’s prayers demand
orthodoxy. pluto warps its own orbit. the
brain increases in rifts as it leaps into a
razorblade for the fifth time today: the
latitudes widen: two axis juxtapose in
denial. why are you leaving is exodus’ tribal
iii. chant, it smolders in your tongue, bleeding
gums reign supreme. a grandfather’s
chagrin is more than enough. who am i
telling? my waste of lineage? a felled pine
of relativity? the axe sits in the corridor.
iv. it speaks to me in lengthy syllables.
I do sometimes wonder
about the secret things. Patience and
brittleness and the way your fingers
linger and then brush off against this
fabricated cosmos. A sort of magnetism
permeated in vitriol, cerulean as havoc,
as suffocation, as drain. All-consuming.
I wonder when the empyrean waltzes
around this meter and a half, careful,
quiet, conquering. I wonder as I watch you
spit out each consonant as if burning,
as if poison. Lost like a bird in
mellifluousness. This, ourselves,
swallowed by the sweet, the sly, the
searing. And when the sky rifts open like
an eggshell and the light hits and abases and
defies I cannot help but surrender. I wonder,
sometimes, alone at night, celestial dome
spreading above me in perpetuity.
I wonder at work and back home and when
the sun gets red and transcending,
foreshadowing, an obvious metaphor.
The times you water the flowers in my
meadow, I wonder, I wonder when you’re
away and building a different life and even
when I am not in it I wonder. When death
takes me to become one with soil and all
those planes are lost and I am nothing but
illness to land I will wonder. Transience
doing its doing, myself adrift and sedated,
Lara Torea is always in love with something. She enjoys television about the failed marriage's aftermath, cats, the beach in cold weather, Billy Joel, learning about silly things from space. Her words have been published or are forthcoming in Limelight Review and INKSOUNDS Collective. Otherwise, she tweets @melarancholic.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.