Your words slice away at the heart of a thing until it sits undisguised
Bleeding softly on the kitchen table into puddles of ink
And I touch my chest to know that my heart still beats
Still beats intact though it feels like so many ribbons
Curled around a kernel of
A kernel of steadfast, stubborn
Resistance
—
Multicolored
Cold glass marble
Smooth from my restless fingers probing
Probing to ensure no cracks have formed in this
This nonconductive core concealed in my flesh
And I pray a whispered terror-filled prayer
To a God I'm not quite sure can hear me: “don't let me lose control”
—
Shards of broken borosilicate slip between unpinned ribbons
Fall musically to the floor revealing fault lines
Intrinsic to the tense color-covered sphere
Held as though it were a power cell and not
And not an insulator
Barring electricity
Keeping me cold
And quiet and still
And still and still here
Patterns unconfined and blooming bright
Among shards of glass and ink and blood
And a certainty sounding clear as chimes
There is something good beyond what’s broken
—
The heart of a thing lying between us
The truth of a thing held in hearts aching for closeness
And slow mornings and warm evenings
The drowsy contentment rooted in sureness
And hearts left open on the kitchen table
Whittling at a definition of “home” that breathes
Soft as your lips on my cheek
Your words slice away at the heart of a thing until it sits undisguised
Bleeding softly on the kitchen table into puddles of ink
And I touch my chest to know that my heart still beats—
It does—and the thing on the table sits newborn and clarified
Gently peeled and shining fresh—and familiar
words rusty—not as in unused, corroded, forgotten
in a garage—words rusty like a metal hinge
gathering oxidation and slowly clogging, grinding
where once the way was smooth. irony, rusting
creaking irony of slogging through words to express
how they flow, how they come slow and winding;
stubbornness of old gates, tilted leaning nearly dust,
held by stubborn iron, red and flaking and barely whole;
smithing metaphors of metal words sturdier than I am
to hold my swinging frame, to put pen in place of steel, to reinforce
timber warped from being milled green. words
corroded and corrosive, acid red-hot words spilling
into my heart, spilling from my brain, my mouth,
from the beating hammers loud in the next room.
my mental metallurgy, trying desperately to scrape the rust from my words—
to be sharp enough to cut through my own
bullshit. words rusty—I may not mean what I say—I mean to say anything at all—
this creation of cadence soothing, smoothing.
the empty space in my ribs
where my heart used to be,
before it dropped out of my chest, fell
to the ground, at your feet.
your words and your touch shake me
loose of myself—I am entirely yours. I am my own
and give myself entirely over to you.
your breath on my skin wells up
contradictions in me—your love
sparks fluidity in me, sets my heart in motion—
moving always toward you.
my heart on the ground—tread lightly,
or don’t.
Persephone is not so far removed from Icarus—it’s only that gods can touch the face of their beloved without burning. and maybe we are all just trying to live as though our wings were stronger than wax, as though if we simply fly high enough the sun will cease blistering and embrace us, gentle in its warmth, as though the fires of Hades will feel like Hestia’s hearth if god will only love us back. mortals must be content with this plane between two fires—but aren’t the flames alluring?
love in logistics—
the care of “whatever you need, dear”
and “not this evening, but
tomorrow morning at 9 works,” and
“may I kiss your head, just there?”
gentle negotiation
of lives, easing of inevitable
frictions, joining of edges and creases.
I did not expect to find love
in my calendar,
yet it is in scheduling time
to spend a night or an evening
in dear company
that I melt,
find myself content.
We were not made in its image
but from the beginning we believed in it
not for the pure appeasement of hunger
but for its availability
it could command our devotion
beyond question and without our consent
and by whatever name we have called it
in its name love has been set aside
unmeasured time has been devoted to it
forests have been erased and rivers poisoned
and truth has been relegated for it
we believe that we have a right to it
even though it belongs to no one
we carry a way back to it everywhere
we are sure that it is saving something
we consider it our personal savior
all we have to pay for it is ourselves
W.S. Merwin, originally published in the January 12, 2012 issue of The New York Review; also published in the author's 2014 book The Moon Before Morning.
is this freedom, Daphne? Apollo takes your body now for his own use—your leaves his crown, your timber his lyre-material. when you begged your father for escape, did you expect your feet to stick in the soil? deliverance not from, but to, as you are anchored to the earth ripe tor your pursuer's plucking. you are made a holy symbol of the man-god who drove you to this desperate transformation. even now you do not belong to yourself. is this the freedom you prayed for, Daphne? Eros and Apollo and Penaeus your father all playing their games at the cost of your life, and you now without eyes to weep over your fate; without leaves that can drop in protest. I will sit in your evergreen shade, Daphne, and sing the songs you can no longer remember.
Blegh fine a pinned post. I am Moss (among other names). I use they/them pronouns. I post poems now and then. The poems are mostly titled by date written and edited, which allows me to keep track of my progress with writing. My main blog is @deep-indigo-abyss, where I don’t do anything special or particularly interesting. Feel free to reblog anything here. I think that about covers it.
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