Stemma
Can you see them yet?
The little bones
That frame and trace,
Hidden by the carrus
Of my shame.
They're hiding there,
Just beyond my reach
Of will and passion.
This I cannot do
Without the urge
To carry on.
The Room is dark,
And Yet there
Is a light.
Wonderful
To behold.
Fragment me,
And hold me fast
To your yoke
Of glorious lust.
The temple is cracked
And the dust is rising.
But we carry on,
Heedless of Pandora
And her shameless
Curiosity.
Violets
When I was seven, they had us stitch up some lavender pillows.
I didn’t care for needles then, and pain wasn’t relative.
I remember a laugh that filled the room,
stories of intoxication and how gravity could bend.
Our teacher played guitar sometimes.
When I was six, I sat in a doctor’s room clinging to my mother’s wrist.
I watched the other children frolic upon the violet carpet.
I remember singing happy birthday too early, the taste of cake on a candle.
I liked adventures with soap and butterflies back then,
With my smile stained by berry yogurt and stories I couldn’t handle.
When I was fourteen my dad told me of the grand life of Great-Grandmother Helen.
I remember laughing, the twilight in the window, staying awake all night writing poetry.
And I remember feeling the courage to hold a fuzzy, black caterpillar for the first time,
nostalgia over raising monarchs with my mother.
Singing in a closet while playing hide and go seek, daring to take a curious peek.
My youth was a kingdom of kings and queens,
a hierarchy practiced by butterflies, and it echoed bravery.
Blueberry ice-cream on wednesday nights, alongside my cousin’s velvet ballet tights.
The songs we sang at the old people’s home, the words I spat that stole the breath
of the gentle chaos of my death.
My childhood was filled with battleships and autumn sunsets.
It smelled of sinking into her warm sweater as she breathed,
taking in her smell of bluebells and callalilies.
It’s more of a personal account, I know.
But low in behold, these are the colors with whom I foretold.
