i am being emptied but not like a glass,
that overused metaphor,
that narratival whore,
not like a glass but like a sponge,
squeezed between two hands
wet with the moisture from the too long
damned tears, an angry ocean
of tired and angry emotions
slamming against my heart like waves
in coves on the Oregon shore.
and with the liquid falling to the ground,
whispering sound falling into streams of thought -
i wonder if the seedlings in the sand will bloom,
will there be resurrection?
will there be a bright afternoon in June,
and when will the rain return -
a hurricane force onslaught of sheets of water
would be nice; an overwhelming
roaring rage of barreling waves,
lips kissing my crusty brow,
the crest of clear salt sea rising over my head,
hands that hold instead of hands that squeeze
fingers that caress, fingers that ease,
palms that hold my broken, tormented, torn shell
of a body that has been emptied like a sponge.
Comments