2020 / POETRY / AUTHOR
MONICA FALCON
BURIED
…
Under the arms of blushing flora,
I hang us with pink plastic clips on the veranda of your childhood home,
Bury you in the creases of manuscripts, nameless, thankless
Dream up something spectacular, then
fold my thorns to tuck in your pocket, and race you to where the clouds
are just beginning,
Beg you to take me to edge of the world
Jump
When I whispered goodbye to you at the station
the softness in your voice held me
“I fell first for the carnage of a body breaking”
I asked once more for the dead of winter
For the heat of a bar hidden beneath the floorboards
of a city far away
For the keys of a melody to cradle what I’ve been missing
For Rokkoshidare, which I selfishly took from you
I held my breath for the moon and back
waited for the world to bend for me,
For time to retreat to the wrecked enclave of impossible endings,
quiet beginnings
And on the brink of collapsing
wished for you
I awoke in the spring to a blossoming horizon
Reduced to a crimson burn, then,
exposed our corpses still decomposing, carmine thread thinning,
Held your head in my hands to sooth the sorrow rooted there.
Those days,
back when I longed for the rawness of a shipwrecked tide to wash over me,
Perhaps you longed for it too