Thursday, August 11, 2011

of green holes & things ,,,,














there is no sign that he was here 
no faded band of white where the ring encircled
no token
no locket or braid of silver 
( unless you count that initial carved on my upper left arm when i was 17 .....)
( but it is an indistinguishable secret )
( well, and now ....  that other thing ... ) 
no welts or bruises of indigo blue & purple-black
though, there is this bruised heaviness sometimes 
there is no box of memorabilia stashed under the bed, in the closet
or at the cedar-bottom of a drawer
no outward trace 
exactly ....
but
as you peel back the folds
of peach, pink & bone around my heart ...
you will find a blossoming infinite hole that remains
marking - defining
the sureness ...
steeped in music, words, yearning & years
smelling of honeyed-moist-earth & green growing things
you can still feel the imprint of his finger-tip tracings
that followed the path of my blood & moonlight
i've grown accustomed to that shadow weight and you can stand in it's thundered fire 
and you will know.
holes
are
loves token

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