1/30

A bit late on these, but I’m still doing a 30/30 for National Poetry Month. Here’s the first one.

Art by Joe Webb

Prayer of resurrection

 

hold fast to my wraith-pine fingers

the slow mesh of twigs trickling down is red, red, red

and twitching in my spinal knuckles, the vibrant air is flowing out of my lips and

she is the full taste of oxygen injected with forests of sage wildfire

she is burning out over my ridges, we smolder in the white ash

and roll under the crumbling trees, smashing the roots and bursting apart the soil

we’re pouring ourselves between mouths like parched beasts

and clawing in the ever-entwining deep

 

O, it is like something that cannot be cut—the mesh of our hands and icy blues

the same sky is enough for our hearts,

wandering the hills and feeding on the little blue ghosts that crawl into my palms

you are levitating in the dark, close enough to taste my nose

close like your hands know

close as the feeling of my cheek on your neck

at the kitchen sink

close like the pounding of headaches

from the lumbering monsters that haunt your cool forests

all slow-moon shadows with their grieving eyes,

muscles beneath their shining scales

bristling like oil

you feel them dragging you underneath the crusted leaf floors,

you’re boiling down into their ruffling feathers, so

dig, dig, dig for the insides, fight the consuming terrors,

the hollow eyes loneliness, the blinding flash

and growls in the mind’s most horrid rooms

cluttered with it’s feet-cutting bones and the spine-d maw of safe emotions

waiting to eat away your hands in the witching hours

as your fingers touch the last room’s wall

you see my face

growing from the dark

 

and there in the empty morning

your eyes are glowing with the dust

and the weight of my hand is feather,

is momentary marble

is the lightness of the air in the golden hour,

I feel the pine fingers taking form again

and they are brushing against your chest

finding the slow rhythm, matching the breath

holding on light and close—

and I think you know by now that I swing between hope and despair

at the slightest touch of your moons

and pray that you mimic

my heart’s throbbing vibrations

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