The night
circles and swirls around
and inside me
deeper than you might imagine
Things
break
die, rip and tear down to blood
and
nothing stops...
It is not how long a thing lasts
it is, in fact,
how much you enjoy it while it is there
As much as the motion
and emotion move you
your tools
Matter
When your cup is so close
to vacant
Your motions become
mechanical
unnatural
artificial
what nutrients do you derive
from a plastic apple?
Give me the real
the imperfect
filled with juice and crunch and covered
in bruises
connected to
and inviting in
sin
Let me linger
there
with corporeal, substantial sugars
sweetening my lips, making them
sticky
Even inhabiting the night swirls,
I want the real.
notes and thoughts from a widow and mother of three
No comments:
Post a Comment