Friday, April 24, 2009
four winds bring the rain to dirt
Bone Marrow Mud
my children's voices,
passing through me
like a shiver
that clenches teeth.
I did not chew my own arm off to get away,
instead dismembered in the dark
where none of you could see,
left to tumble down a rabbit hole
and left to wonder
when will the rain begin
behind these four winds,
wash away the scars of a father
and make him whole again?
I find I still can't quite breath in the grey light
of these days.
Taste of tin in a mouth without an answer
but this promise kissed into a collapsing isobar;
I will not sleep until you bury me
and four winds bring the rain to dirt
in a soft patter at first, in a deluge at last,
turning wind and rain and dirt to bone marrow mud.
This blood and clay,
the only connection
to our time here on earth.