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i swallow the rain down to its slowest blade and still can’t
tell if i am the thinned silver of god’s fallen tongue or its bloody song.
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Created on 2020-01-10 07:42:34 (#3602346), last updated 2021-02-03 (226 weeks ago)
8 comments received, 19 comments posted
4 Journal Entries, 1 Tag, 0 Memories, 144 Icons Uploaded
| Name: | brother solomon |
|---|
  B R O T H E R S O L O M O N | Mary who mattered to me, gone or asleep among fruits, spilled in ash, in dust, I did not leave you. Even now I can't keep from composing you, limbs & blue cloak & soft hands. I sleep to the sound of your name, I say there is no Mary except the word Mary, no trace on the dust of my pillowslip. I only dream of your ankles brushed by dark violets, of honeybees above you murmuring into a crown. Antique queen, the night dreams on: here are the pears I have washed for you, here the heavy-winged doves, asleep by the hyacinths. Here I am, having bathed carefully in the syllables of your name, in the air and the sea of them, the sharp scent of their sea foam. What is the matter with me? Mary, what word, what dust can I look behind? I carried you a long way into my mirror, believing you would carry me back out. Mary, I am still for you, I am still a numbness for you. — mary szybist |
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