If she’s being honest, she fears she has lost
her muchness. There’s a sameness to these
days, an unsaneness of ways, a spilling. She
is willing to clean these dark streets with her
quiet rain, but the corner light calls. She falls
often on scraped knees, teases both hair and
heart into submission. Watch her graffiti her
name against that sunset, build herself a cast
-le in cardboard, bid her own hands dance
against these hollow shadows, carve a shiv
-er alongside this cold slivered moon. She is
daughter, mother, friend, the girl you see in
the mirror, the whispered ghost you’ve chased
all these gray years. Her tears salt this earth;
her smile its tilt and curve. Her birth, long for
-gotten, gone uncandled, still helps it burn.
Oh, De, you should make up your own dictionary. I will buy a copy, promise. Love your words, whole or divided.
This is beautiful. And i love, as always, the way you split up the words – and the idea of making a knife out of the moon. The title, the final line, well the whole poem is brilliant!
This is AWESOME. I will read it again in the morning.
This could be a contender for a favorite in a body of favorites –