Posted Monday, July 12th, 2010
A Lack of Regret
I would rather sleep in a bed of ashes,
and be often absent,
than share my heated thoughts with silence.
The rain was warm the day I stood in it. After
school, I danced down the street.
Clashing puddles like cymbals,
the same singing as my skin
under my skirt which was swollen,
a rough compress
and the storm.
And Memory distorts by nature, turns within turns.
Sustained by its own laws.
Balance undone in an unhealthy ear
Let go of the rope,
Skin slipping off in sheaves.
A quick knife slit the binding,
and membrane parted with a woman’s cry.
Streaking like woodstain, unevenly spread.
The tree grows through me.
A black shadow nets me.
A shoal of light sways me in an accustomed silence.
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