Into The Fire

By PATRICIA LOWDEN | Published: May 12, 2010

At eight minutes past midnight
I gather the scraps of our letters.
A tricky alphabet I scrawl on the walls
of the not-so-impossible,
yet inconsolable world.

I place them in a pile for examination-

Wet as night dew the moon threw from far off places, whisky lipped and edges you can walk upside from and live. Hearts of stone that can be swallowed or tossed upwards into cloud hands that don't touch. Shavings of metal that were coughed out from the devil's own throat when words were not enough. The twisted opening of the aorta, limbs of long legs that would not intertwine, keys and locks and chains that would melt down to a river. And a river with its leagues of fish swimming against the current and the current singing with wind spun tight bodies til they float without hunger and are never discovered.-

I gather small twigs, bones of birds, and paper from yesterday's news.

I find my best ally, solitude, which was hard one
eons ago in shadowy boxcar sleep
and green bones springing away from birth,
in worn down soles of boots,
and in the aftermath, the dreaded silence after the crash.
After love, after death, always
after finding myself
the moon.

So much for this I say.
My breath is fire and I'm about to cry out into it all.

So much for time that's passed, for death stinking between the floorboards,
for the lines on my face,
wind washed a thousand times over
and still wandering in the right direction.

So much for her light that leaves yellow flecks lingering
on the inside of the day
or his hands
that haunt even the dirt under my fingernails.

So much for all that
as I pass through the hours
in the light shrinking and growing
in the tumbling dumbstruck storm
we call
being here.
And shining
because we are half moon minded and hovering
about to fall from the sky.

So much for safe places you go back to,
for watercolor portraits of cresting waves,
for hallucinations,
for mermaids with brilliant fish tails
that dip and lick at the swells
and waiting

So much for that
for the little bit they give you
and for the day that denies love
in all its juxtaposed glory.



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