In this poem the boy
is just a boy. The hands are just hands. The blood is just blood. Let the body keep its red meditation, the cells sky at the center of the self, pulsing, breathing, wanting. If only it was that easy to write a poem without bleeding into it. Open the unmouth and let the unlungs bear the unbearable. Listen to the heart thumping out the unimaginable question of how to live a life unsolved, dissolved, absolved.
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Every morning the sun sets.
I wake and kiss the aching ground goodbye. I know, and everything is changing. None of this will last. Have you ever noticed how on long drives, the moon never moves? Here, in the same room in the same house in the same town–– long ago, you must have been a child. Now each memory is shot through with golden light, each conversation begins with you tucking a farewell under your tongue. The thing about beauty is its impermanence. The thing about life is that it ends. Everyone wants to leave something behind, so we looked at the stars and called them holy, we drew red ochre handprints on cave walls reaching towards the future in a throbbing symphony of breath singing we are here; we exist; we live and love over and over and over again until. this is a poem without an ending.
this is the cycle of dusk to dark, the child’s palms holding shame, the ugliness in your closet that refuses to die. this is a breath, which is a bomb, which is warm, ruined, that kind of feeling. these trembling hands, these bruised lungs, this unspeakable body. i was never any good at being holy. |
AuthorNathan Lee's poetry and prose. More of my work can be found on my Instagram. Archives
March 2020
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