**tw's: death, genocide**
well, let's make a meal out of your thirst &
my hunger. after all, it's march now. let's
set the table. let's make a meal—
how to be moving is to have meaning & the
dying are always trying to be the fastest,
hungry with the wanting to be saved,
& the rest of us wanting to save—well
what's a language called when it's halfway there?
i sob like i've just learnt how to talk to god—
i say, it's spring again, & how i'm devastated. the skies are bright & there is a genocide
happening in Palestine. i close my eyes
& bring my father a glass of water. here, i am a good daughter. someone who
would tell orpheus to just let eurydice go.
someone who hasn't ever heard of eurydice
tells me that i should have died. a song brings
no-one back to life. i know that
my lips puckered up in prayer are the flower petals opening up toward the sun. the
only prayer she knows is despair.
i awaken from a dream about my dead friend. there's
no music here. the table is laid. now it's
hailing. i still pray. my throat is closing
up, or has the feeling of closing up. but outside—
the winds have softened. after all, it's march now. medusa has cut her hair.
YOU ARE READING
body work
Poetry**for fans of plath, anne sexton & ocean vuong** 'body work' is a captivating collection of poetry that delves into the depths of human experiences, exploring the intricate relationship between the physical body & the emotional & spiritual realms. w...
