Thursday, June 21, 2007

[one step. two steps.]

by Laura Halloran Mallory

speak softly to me of freedom or of pain
or if you wish to, put your fingers in my mouth,
release my heart from my throat and find a crack.
drop yourself into me open me wide
so something can find itself inside,
so something can finally get out.

I know my way is through this death
rebirth, decompression and idleness;
in cycles I suffer my unforgiving intellect
[she says you cannot free then all, relax.]
remember where he sleeps. one step. two steps.

I cannot bare their sufferings of nothings
[the cross still stands lonely and covered with dust
against the stars of that forgotten night.]

it has grown too heavy, child, with dreams,
old age, and expectations.
even for you.
I am not him. I am not him.

so I walk away from them,
bleeding to recall a life lived once in joy,
before. before.
wrapped in the words of poets and paradoxes
I suck the airs of absence,
wondering at these words I spill like wine onto their feet,
wondering at their tears when I offer them a drink.


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