458 Readings | 4 Ratings


You know when this begins. Skin follows air to seal itself around you. All the scars your body loves are loosening; first unraveling of longest fibers. A collarbone bends, slowly, at the old joint. Opening your eyes changes nothing. Before you simply the color of absence; gentian filling in the lines of your hands as you realize palms are not raised. You are not grasping. The body deciphers its grief, shudders for a lost loam, the raw wedge on which to memorize this equation. Your bones, so long gentle, will be sorted by willows. You count backwards as each gram of soul slips out.  26 single pearls surfacing. Tonight you will let the walrus of God glow amber beneath your tongue as you hold this water in.
Posted 08/29/12
Originally published in The Spoon River Poetry Review
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