Long before he broke himself
He plucked mourning doves off the wind And trapped them in a fugue Their rapid beat of wings, the trills Their crooning, in the tremelo He pressed my hands against her heart Whispered, make her laugh, With checkered grin and sticky palms I tickled her ribs until she chuckled Now her ivory spine sags with dust Her skeleton, the splintered wood, Arches toward my slender wrist And as I knead her wounds I find I no longer know her figure For when my nails trace her skin Begging her to laugh again, I tear my fingertips to shreds, Think how, at the end, He plucked the needles Off his veins, while my hands, Pressed against his heart, Played symphonies On his straining ribs, Watched him tear his songs To feathers I scrape the bruises of her bones Enraptured at her shrieks, with hope That, somehow, in her agony A thousand doves will break free
In celebration of National Poetry Month, a moving piece:
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AuthorWith ink dripping in my veins & stories dancing in my head, I spend my time untangling poetry & getting perfectly lost Archives
April 2017
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