She isn't too far from home, like most hills.
She is a paved corner, a four-way stop
where men in khakis and cobalt sedans
flick cigarettes. Doing her a favor,
I imagine they imagine.
She is plain;
nothing to look at really.
Just an ordinary hill in an ordinary town
where tired mothers in lumbering vans
dump acrid sippy cups,
and raging boys with time on their side
dispose of evidence.
I know this hill.
The time spent trudging my wrecked body to her wrecked body
is familiarly eternal.
And in Our meeting,
the heavy corners of light and dark converge,
while the wind screams,
while I weep,
and she, helpless beneath an ocean of pitch,
is silent.
Wings sprout from my cage.
I fly, and wonder how lovely death will be.
We have a secret. We breathe together.
This hill knows me.
No comments:
Post a Comment