Getting It Out of Her

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This bad weather will not relent. The mood here is foul, bitter. The whites of our eyes have gone tinged with sulfur and spidery red lines. We speak and black feathers spill from our lips. If we pass too close, we leap back from the shock of blue flame that jumps the gap between our hard bodies. 

Rub our arms and move by, wordless.

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My body smells like decay. All my fluids have quit me and my eyeballs scree and clatter in their sockets. 

It hurts to look and clapping them shut is worse.

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Ah, listen to me. 

*

Everwhere is the disassembly at work. Folks go to sleep in the dark and when they waken all they know and love is gone from them. What dark arts are concocting a drink for you now? You know not. 

You know not.

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Or, worse, you do and are right now downing the bitter liquid.

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How it burns going down.

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It seems the sweetness of the world has fled, and the golden light of dusk. And what tenderness has been between us. What passes for tenderness now? 

We tend to our wounds in silence.

*

*

I make too much of it.

*

Everywhere it is much worse than here. My troubles are but small. 

There is no one I need to bury, nor mourn for, nor slay, nor quit.

We are all of us in this small boat still making for shore.

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Though it seem distant.

Though the sea remain indifferent to our pleas.

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We are yet making our way.

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Namaste. 

Peace be with you. 

This my earnest prayer.

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