FractureKnowing nothing of this other land,Fracture by TheGlassIris
yet told to embrace it and call it mother,
We grew up with this phantom at our bedside,
hearing its oceans, its lost words, and its many
falling leaves. I thought that
I knew where my home was, here,
on the other side.
Yet I have known my whole life
the little ways it has denied me: Not always
skin, not just a facet
of color. But a face,
a book of names and dates,
a little house full of gods and saints.
So many words and among them
a few or five I recognize, most of them
expletives, a greeting for lunch, a cult-
ural equivalent to a high-five. Longing
for words of my own, I turned
to you and you
to soothe anger, poem
to ease pain and smooth cracks.
Let the poem know your fractures,
let it run fingers across hills and chasms.
Let all selves combine, intertwine
to one: let all the leaves fly upward,
crossing the bridge of air, back
into the world they fell from.
Only, there is no other
at the end of the path. The branch
is hollow, the roots
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,He doesn't write poetry anymore. by SilverInkblot
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.