Poem 66

It’s the worst of all days… until I try and remember the days I’m stick under sheet and without the gumsure to rise and repeat. The days that my heart strings ache for playing and the light from the morning seems as drowsy and self piteous as I. The dead days. When the whole of my existence combated the color of the sun and I found within me the will to carry a tragedy like ribbons across my gift-package face. These are not the dead days. These are alive with possibility of settling and unsettling roots. We forgive ourselves for the things with which we a wholly to blame and take instead the awkwardly shaped parcels dripping of guilt and shame fresh plucked from mangroves. Water and weed. I am in between. Like the following summer after a glimmering barrel and a ruby-soaked root. When the seeds are dropped into the froth they take upon themselves the current and whittle their way past sober-sought startling etch-a-sketch silhouettes. The old pity the young and the young misinterpret the pity and I am three feet below with buoyancy in my tendrils watching as they crack against each other in rivalry Perhaps, like sperm, the first to land takes spoils. Perhaps they struggle with SeaLegs so Pinocchio that lying may afford them a pole vaulting advantage. I am weightless, with the root of something old and sinister wrapping itself about my ankle. We’ll be rid of this soon, they say. Not soon enough. 

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