There was something in the way
she dismantled herself—
the way she pulled fire from the sun
and burned;
the way she lay face down
in the rubble, breathing in
ash and despair;
the way she tasted the destruction
before she carved herself anew
from the black sky.
This is an excerpt from a piece I’ve written for my book.
Won’t you meet me in the after
where I remain and you are gone?
Where there are no angels, devils
or ghosts, but an empty house—
won’t you come?
Won’t you meet me in the void
where my heart betrays me
and hope survives?
Where the earth is frozen
and the sky is white—
won’t you come?
Won’t you whirl your wind around me
or place a whisper on my pillow?
Won’t you leave a song outside my door
to break the silence in this house?
Won’t you meet me in the winter
when it’s midnight and turned cold?
When I’ve outgrown the void
and outlived the hope,
when my soul believes you’re gone?
Won’t you meet me by the old maple,
where you left me when we were young?
We’ll tell stories and wake the spirits:
I want to know what you’ve been up to—
won’t you come?
They tell you to follow the sun
as if night isn’t upon you
as if the shadows aren’t real
but night is still upon you
The thing in your mouth, copper hush
rage whispers
silence screams
until you sing your song of flames:
Let them come
Oh, let them rage
Let them find me in the shadows
Let them say my name
And quake
They tell you to let go
as if you’ve unpacked your pain
as if you’ve poured it into the earth
but hell still sits in a suitcase
The thing in your belly, it knows
the magic lies in the coming apart
in the middle of the wreck
in your every season
and every room
it waits
Hurt is hard to feel
but still the wound must speak
and speak it does
before you heal
They tell you to sit on the moon
keep fishing dark skies for stars
as if hope isn’t hanging by a thread of nostalgia
as if you didn’t notice the rage behind the flowers
before they were plucked from your garden
but his hands are still entangled in your hair
The thing in your center, it calls
little by little
in waves
it comes
Pull up a chair, sorrow says
out of body, slip
you will rebuild yourself
but first, rest
I get to thinking about how long
I have carried things around with me;
things I am not certain
I will ever unload;
things buried so deep
they are embedded in my soul
and perhaps beyond my reach.
Is it even baggage anymore
or has it broken down
and been absorbed?
Is it in my blood and bones?
I wonder
DISMANTLED 