Splintered fences

Splintered fences

Splintered fences

There are morning crows on the splintered fences, yakking and pushing each other around.  The first crunches of ice on the ground, these cheap boots that let the water in.

I want this all to be over.  I want it only to begin.

I long to reach in to the gut and the lungs and the mess of it.  Hold it still, keep it all exactly as it is.

There is a Christmas tree in the bedroom now, the kind that makes slow patterns on the wall.  Crackling war songs and changing colours as she sleeps.

I can still hear your sighs in my ear, contented, though a continent apart.  It was never enough for me, but I chased it willingly.  And I hate to admit it, but these feelings I blame entirely on you clamber only from my own swollen heart.

Sometimes there is so little inside, I can take in everything and not be brought down. 

Sometimes there is so much outside I don’t know how it all fits and why this kaleidoscope world doesn’t burst or shatter like a glass under flame.

I want silence, pristine and fresh.  I want so much noise I cannot hear me.

I pray, for her, for the swiftness of death but I want her never to leave.  

I want so many impossible things.  

Those nights we spoke in secret and my words altered your breath.  Bugs bouncing against leaning lanterns on the wild forest floor.  A sleeping child pressed close to my breast

and I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore.

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