My blood runs—

down the pole

snaking its rounded parts

covering all its blemishes

filling in its chips

My blood holds it together

As it lets me go

“I’ve always been bad with a drink. It got worse when my daughter, at twenty-three weeks—long past when it’s supposed to happen if it’s going to—fell out of me onto the grass. I went for a walk that day. I was happy. Galel had finally agreed to the name I picked out. He wouldn’t have if he knew from where it came.” I laugh. “The pain came like...a bowling ball dropped on my foot. I thought it was a charley horse. It travelled up to my midsection and, next I remember...nothing. Nothing. Just air. It was passing by my face in pure darkness. I could hear everything, but I saw nothing, could feel nothing. I knew I wasn’t on the ground anymore. I thought maybe I’d died and made it as far as purgatory and stopped. Then I heard someone tell me I had my baby. She was so formed they thought I went into labour, which I had, but only because she was so large my body had to contract to spit her out. Dead.” I’ve gone into a cold sweat. My palms are wet. “An ambulance didn’t come. The people said I told them to call my husband, that I would sue if someone called the hospital. I knew something was wrong. I knew it so strong, so well. We took the baby home in a woman’s jumper. I was a mule against going to the doctor the same day. I wanted to be sure she wouldn’t cry before the doctors tried to—” My breathing is laboured. I won’t let Samuel touch me. “I want her to know that I remember what she felt like, smelt like. But she was only flesh. No colour to her cheeks, no life in her fingers or toes. She wasn’t alive. She’d been gone for days, maybe more, Doctor Putnam said. She was pronounced at 8:22pm. One year and one day after my wedding anniversary.”

Today I weep over noble birth.

Today I weep that Achilles never lay beside me

in the dawn of morning.

Today I weep that I am not alone here; that

I am neither the first nor the last.

You and I, Mind, are the wandering

blacks of souls;

The result of discontentment unrelented.

Islands and mountaintops,

Valleys and plains,

Rushing waters and creeks,

Stretching trees and wheat

All far more beautiful

than life, love, and the rest.

We pale in comparison to our

supposéd subordinates.

We are sad molded creatures with

forgotten origin.

Lost in soulful space,

Lost in tempestuous time,

Lost in place of daring, ethereal boldness

divine.

Carry me further,

Let me careen through the air;

Take me higher than my feet

could ever fare.

Bless my wandering spirit

and my impossible imagination thus;

Let me wield a sword of steel

and let me ride through a prolonged night.

Cover me in screens of gold and clouds of white,

wearing only what heaven’s soldier might.

I will piece together, myself,

an ivied castle reaching tall;

reaching higher than any other

this lowly world could ever recall.

I want wings on my feet,

shining beads in my hair;

Mail for my armor

so the silver glints and glares.

Behold, there will be no men

or women

or children

of any more beauty than another;

Rather, we will dwell in gleeful silence

amidst the gem-riddled green,

and we will gaze up at the

sky which harbored us.

And to Thee I will sing a

song of tearful joy for--

my dreams and wants and desires

go hungry

no more.

There isn't much to say

about Samuel Deane;

he was quiet and scheming,

vengeful and mean

With hair like sand

and a tongue like snow,

besides his demeanor,

like I said,

there's not much to know

I met him once,

just the one time,

and oh, Samuel Deane

was silent as a mime

I didn't fret,

I didn't groan,

instead I said,

"Oh, Samuel Deane

you will always be alone...

With your hair like sand,

and your tongue like snow,

your unwavering stance,

and your lengthy torso;

Your golden lobe,

and your emerald eyes,

You won't see your soul through its wistful demise

Well, I don't know about that

and I'll admit it, too

but oh, Samuel Deane

you're not one to pride what is true

But your stone will pronounce

all that was unsaid,

and unfortunately for you

both you and your words

will be dead."

Wander me, counselor. Ascend my watchful heights and sing of my grandeur...

Crouch amidst my forest; take refuge amongst my wild flowers, and bloom until your buds burst forth...

While you so oft discuss the challenges of being with your feeble kind, so oft should you visit my hills under the spell of night...

Relieve your mind of its striving, counselor; give not your attention to fleeting vapors, and stroll through the shadows of my youthful evergreens.

Like ink engrained in the pages of loveworn leather books,

She was a force for only time's reckoning

Yearning to go she often spoke in cryptic prose, pressing the matter

ever 

so 

gently

Until finally she went,

sinking herself into the ellipsis of a-waiting eternity

There is no meaning to me

Of me

For me

M 

E

A feeling of belonging

Belonging to one's own self whose

judgment matters not and most

It is a name to call oneself

When lost

When free

When sound

When in fury

But when one is apart from 'me'

One cannot be found

or freed

or sound

When apart from 'me'

"I am" but no one;

and no one

is me.