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Stella Reed: I won’t speak to you like I spoke before

September 7, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

In lieu of language I give you my hands

to make this poem urgent. 

Beware, I sign. Stay alive. 

 

Here there is no night 

only the adjacent dark, 

the proximity of our breath. 

 

Despite what I said, 

I have made mistakes. 

I chose the wrong book from the ruins 

 

its spine turned to dust, 

fossiled the memory of my mother

in crumbling slate 

 

picked over bones for my poetry

made a mess of my flesh, wasted time

comparing my life to a ticking clock.

Do you remember how we lived

before danger? How with our senses

we collected joy, spread it 

 

around on canvas and paper, 

sent it out into the air? 

Behind us the hills could be on fire 

 

or alive with the spinning 

lights of disaster. 

Here are my fingers: 

 

church, steeple 

in my upturned palms, no congregation,

never mine to hold.

Filed Under: Issue 102, Poetry, Poetry 102 Tagged With: Stella Reed

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