sunset strokes us, touches all the symptoms festering
in our skin. you instruct me to hand you an empty glass,
you fill it with prayer, all the sabbath still
needing robes and dresses. conventional wisdom tells us
to never beg and cheat, but you ask forgiveness
the same way you lift
a lilac off a neighbor’s cultivated garden: sickly, as if
the bruises on your neck are anyone’s but
your own. grandma used to crush herbs
in her drink: the aura of sage, thyme, jasmine
temporal in her wake, catalyzing the ferments
of the earth on her skin. when you
were sick, your breaths drifting and tattered, she instructed
me to bathe your feet in warm water,
to watch the veins pronounce their own clarity
until the water was blue with sensation.
we felt for pulses in the earth, watched you fever
and quit. coughs were messengers
sent from the deep reserves of your chest: they
signaled life, a body that still blistered
with energy. when you healed, we sat on the lawn
and you pulled the grass out from the root,
watching the blades vibrate, shiver in the wind’s
Enjoyed Vincent's piece?
If so, check out the related pieces of content linked below!
We just sent you an email. Please click the link in the email to confirm your subscription!
OKSubscriptions powered by Strikingly