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Daily Deviation
Literature Text
I cried myself sane and then
moved on. How strange, that a man
can split open like a rotten peach and find,
at last, nothingness. How strange to realize:
only then can sunlight enter his veins.
Death dissolves us. Nothing has changed
but everything is different. I spend an hour
pressing my fingers against a wall, the skin
whitening as blood retreats.
There is no regret, no fear. Only a man
who whitens against his final four walls,
the empty chair, the selfish and wandering grief.
Only a man whose face slowly unravels and the way
I wash my face, make dinner, let myself forget.
moved on. How strange, that a man
can split open like a rotten peach and find,
at last, nothingness. How strange to realize:
only then can sunlight enter his veins.
Death dissolves us. Nothing has changed
but everything is different. I spend an hour
pressing my fingers against a wall, the skin
whitening as blood retreats.
There is no regret, no fear. Only a man
who whitens against his final four walls,
the empty chair, the selfish and wandering grief.
Only a man whose face slowly unravels and the way
I wash my face, make dinner, let myself forget.
Literature
The storm
Cartilage-smooth azure extends
above bent heads.
Furrows s t r e t c h b e y o
the edge
Literature
On Disappointment
I.
Out on the porch, my mother sat in an Adirondack chair, smoking
her first cigarette in ten years. The air was hazy and discolored.
Her wedding ring spun on the table, gathering fallen ashes.
I was on the floor, knees tucked up under my chin, poking sticks
down the cracks. She spoke of lies and imagined bliss.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed.
I listened as my mother explained the complexity of love.
II.
Last night he drove just over the state border. I sat in the car,
feet up on the dashboard, singing with the radio. He looked at me
like he had a secret. He was the sage and I was the fool.
So there we were, lying
Literature
.vesta
.
It is time. We feel the pull of summer along our spines
as we head into hibernation. Bed is short respite for our leaden limbs,
our singed hair. The air aches with the wait of it, where the embers
click and sing like crickets. Snippets of sound from the underground.
"This," someone says, wide-eyed with awe, "is what the insides
of the earth look like" - the world beneath, struck through with
dragons' teeth, pocked with open sores. The slit smile of the crater
in a slack jaw. Our scarred skies are littered with lights, many
mechanical suns spun into the ceiling, glinting like electric sequins.
And in the middle of it all, where our
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My grandfather died a couple of months ago. It was peaceful and expected.
Feedback: I wanted to convey how fragile and temporary grief is, and how quickly we return to normal life. Does this deserve more emphasis in the poem, or is it enough as is? Also, is the style consistent throughout the poem?
Thank you to
for my second DD, and to everyone who is favoriting my work!
Feedback: I wanted to convey how fragile and temporary grief is, and how quickly we return to normal life. Does this deserve more emphasis in the poem, or is it enough as is? Also, is the style consistent throughout the poem?
Thank you to
for my second DD, and to everyone who is favoriting my work! © 2010 - 2024 saartha
Comments131
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sorry for your loss. i think this poem is clear and simple, but in a positive sense that definitely speaks on the nature of loneliness and grief.