poem: fields afire

27 Sep

there is no silence at the center
of a garden filled with dead flowers
and falling leaves;
a garden surrounded by armor and brick
and the bones of soldiers gone so long from us now –


we stare up through trees bent in a relentless wind,
watching for crows and heroes and golden dreams
ripped from pages of porn star memoirs –

sometimes she whispers on my shoulder
just before the tears fall,
just before the truth spills across a fresh scrubbed floor –
just before a phone rings and a man’s voice fills the receiver
and sudden realization grips the throat of a barrister in decline –

i wept once for a woman like that,
a woman whose magic once lived between her legs,
whose magic lingered on her lips before fleeing into memory –

neglect and shadows fall across her face –
i open a door –
i take her hand –
i lay her down –
words filter through fly traps,
through black screens and under door ways –

only the moans of her last saving grace fill the room
and we laugh aloud
despite a moon filled with blood red rage
and fields afire burning free and close to the soul



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