“Death has shaped me,”
You say quietly Over your cup The day we meet Not looking my way Too ashamed to admit That you find comfort in Your grief So you begin to love me Because I think I am dying Dying with my eyes open And my mouth closed Fists clenched, just slightly. And you learn to love Me in the tomb-like darkness Of your home in September I let you press your Hands against my back In the middle of winter And you come to know My body, when bare Is a map of scars; Remnants of my close encounters With my coming death Scars Leading all the way Back to the grave I’ve saved for myself I tell you there’s still Space In my family’s cemetery For more deaths Silently wishing You’ll want to lie with me, Someday. You look at me gravely And inhale. The air around us is dead In spring, The day before your father Buries you You kiss me Your lips wet, cold And I wonder if you See my map of scars Recharting And marking the smooth place You kissed Right in the nook Between my neck and shoulder A scar For my encounter with you.
0 Comments
‘Lord,’
i say to the ceiling. ‘please give me three more hopes by the first hint of dusk’, while you let the cold enter through our bedroom window. hope. i look out over the lawn and imagine us laying in the grass You in the ridiculously soft burgundy shirt i bought you in the winter Me in my off-white crushed bed sheets i lie there watching as you create and recreate your future in the clouds. i look out over the lawn and imagine. hope. i wash my body and prepare to pray for us, falling to my knees my hands outstretched palms open wide. i am ready for what- ever good i am promised. i shift my gaze and see you throw your own towards your suitcase. i wash my body and prepare to pray. hope. the paint on our walls is still fresh, wet, white and i dip my brush in again, preparing to cover my own fingerprints your voice fills the room and a void becomes a filled grave. i turn to look at you and see nothing only wet, white paint where you should have been. the paint on my walls is still fresh. i close my eyes at the first hint of sun set. ‘alhamdulillah,’ i say to the ceiling, my voice heavy as i imagine the empty lawn in the morning. ‘alhamdulillah,’ i say again as i wash my body and prepare to pray before i sleep. ‘alhamdulillah,’ the windows are shut but light has seeped through, staining my fresh, white walls a slight shade of pink. |
About ASma20-something y/o writer, activist, and youth worker in the Twin Cities. Stick around to read some of my thoughts! Archives
January 2018
Categories |