and columns of rue,
they sing and call to their mother,
echoes storming the firmament of bone,
their song to my pain, the words I never said,
winter flesh, siamese grief.
Beneath the roots of my castles,
their frail bodies linger,
bugs traced on a windshield,
bellowing deep, till I fall asleep,
build my temple of dreams
stone by stone, preciously,
a religion of images iced, sanctified.
My children, stretch your watery wings,
for the abyss knows your names
the way I never will.
I'd force the arms and stress the springs back
to return to the source, the starry womb,
for every word unsaid,
every glance unreached,
every line not crossed,
every name not written.
In golden sand, the imprint of your mother's face,
her unbearable beauty
still burns like an open wound.
'siamese grief.'
ReplyDeleteoh boy.