I want to wear someone else’s shoulders,
stand in front of the mirror and let them hang,
until their broad blades draw blood.
To stare bluntly at the stump
of my body. Reciting a litany of lost causes:
the feelings of rejection, the dire thrill
of resignation, the sense of deficit in the pit
of the stomach. I want to bear the weight of all this,
then teach myself how to shrug them off.
mental illness depression selfharm
Lowering from the sky, the great cranes-
teetering necks that could feed clouds.
Groaning mammoths boring craters that could
bathe crocodiles. Machinery making
mounds of earth. The Common Dump Truck,
broad back carrying progeny of pulp
and muck. A lone bulldozer, idle
under shade of fir tree canopy.
Lost to time.
One beat of great wings.
One gust of wind.
One text or response.
One second gone.
Somewhere in suburbia Jane is drowning.
You can’t hear her too clearly for
She speaks wearily but sincerely
In another language. Her arms are flailing
But she isn’t climbing she’s falling, alone
In clean blue blankets and dusty denim wind.
While some inflexible force at her center
pushes out as if to grip shaking hands,
as somewhere across the street,
Sarah will be screaming.
Why are worlds in science fiction
filled with metal and scabs of rust?
As if recompense for this
Is the Industrial Monster
to gobble it up?
We find a certain solace in valleys,
where our collective unconscious
gathers us to discuss the 'meaning of life'.
Where bonfires hiss and spit on our faces
as we dream of knowing what we're talking about.
And all around us mountains grow,
ever so slowly,
into maybe something greater than ourselves.
Smitten clouds recede at their seams
to reveal the small shy face
of a new sun -
offering its maternity
to the sweet-scented air,
slowly to birth
an exquisite morning.
— The End —