aviisevil

aviisevil Apr 4

It is grief, I'm sure of it, it is grief— she says, swinging her arms.
I look at her bright eyes and trusting
smile—then I look again.

I know it in my heart, she says.

She is small but larger than life,
and I wonder—how much room does her heart have?
Is it full of grief?
If so, where does she keep me and my longing?

She takes a sip of red wine,
and I notice her pretty lips.

Oh, how tormenting it must be
to be such a fine, lovely creature—
to speak of sadness,
to spell it out,
to give words, and meaning, and shape to suffering.

I wonder if a lonely man can do such a thing.

I’ve seen men cry, yes—
and I’ve seen them clench their fists,
break porcelain cups—
and break themselves.

But I’ve never seen them become poetry.

aviisevil Apr 3

Nights child.

Night’s child—sorrow of the
morning sun.

April arrives—bare, too soon,
unraveling the winds.

Do the mountains know?
Do the rivers?

That you are the light,
sharp as the moon.

Pink blossoms bloom—
splitting the bluest sky.

Do the seas confess?
Do the sunsets?

That you are the
ocean’s dream.

Bricks of the city quiver
as the hammer comes down,

red-soaked—like the blood moon
on paper and ink.

Pearls, flowers, and rains
blossom into spring.

Green meadows rise,
turning into butterflies.

Do the stars concede?
Do the shadows?

That you are
summer’s smile—

child of heaven
and dawn,

vast as I am
small and barren—

hope of the
morning sun.

aviisevil Apr 2

you, the light

April arrives—bare, too soon
unraveling the winds

Do the mountains know
Do the rivers

That you are the light
sharp as the moon

Pink blossoms bloom—
splitting the bluest sky

Do the seas confess
Do the sunsets

That you are
the ocean’s dream

Pearls, flowers, and rains—
flower into spring

Green meadows grow
into butterflies

Do the stars concede
Do the shadows

That you are
summer's smile—

The forest of heaven
and dawn

wilderness, the cosmic
heartbeat—

simply, outrageously
irrevocably

beautiful

aviisevil Mar 23

you, the colossal

O my dearest —
how many volumes
does it take
to birth a cathedral

The heavy tomes
now stacked
against the grieving sunset —

stone and paper
bearing down on the dusk

Here you built this city
the roads
the bustling houses
buzzing with gifted breath

The libraries hush
heavy with you —
your gentle handprint
on the spines
your smile
stitched into the walls

The gardens bloom
their roots drunk on your name
flowers
trees
and bees
that find honey
in your step

So much of you remains —
in the sky’s pale hush
in the walls
of spring and autumn
curtains billowing
your name
your creed

In fathers
in mothers
in forebears and children —

soft replicas
learning slowly
how to miss
how to grieve

You
the colossal

To my sweet grandmother, may you find peace and happiness where ever you are, thank you for blessing us with your life and being.

aviisevil Mar 22

painted pain

at the ends, they clutch silver-silk straws,
sip from spoons of mercury — have you noticed?

how the broken walk the same as us,
hollow vessels crackling softly,
bits of themselves rattling like loose coins
in a beggar’s cup.

they leave trails —
grief, cigarette ash,
monday mornings that taste of iron and sleepless teeth,
sunrises pacing in their cages.

the clouds swallow them without whisper,
the wind retracts —
does not brush their sleeves,
does not call them home.

heavy air curdles in corners,
cold as the underside of stones.

i’ve watched them smile at empty coffers,
that smile — a smear of rouge on a corpse’s cheek,
so bright,
so unholy,
painted pain.

aviisevil Mar 21

house of autumn

My house, when I was young,
was tangled with trees and neat little flowers,
lined in rows — seas of red, pink, and white.

Or perhaps that was only a dream,
and I was never young.
Perhaps I arrived
fully formed, carved in stone,
walking in borrowed feet.

How is it that I gave myself up so easily?

Was it the sparse decorations,
the dusty mirrors where I saw myself,
trying not to become barren,
swallowed by storms,
covering bone with flesh, hair,
and new fabric?

I wish there were a place
to set down my heart and leave it there —
let my lungs do the talking,
let my arms measure the weight of hurt.

Perhaps then I could lift my spirit
at the decay of night,
and not lie awake,
in this sedated body,
restless beneath the autumn sky.

This tenacious boredom
has carved a cathedral
deep in my wounds.

How quickly I would give it all up,
burn it all, so easily —

if I weren’t made of neat little flowers,
smoke, ash, and forgotten relics.

But how can I?

They deserve to flee,
to root themselves
in a new home
elsewhere.

#life

aviisevil Mar 21

Lazarus species

I have yet to let the silence fill me completely.
Only words remain — pale husks, soundless,
yet screaming in the marrow of my ears.

I alone bear their rotting weight,
the brittle corpses lining my tongue.
Who else? I speak into hollow rooms,
my voice scattering like dried leaves.

Who else will watch you crash into the moon,
then spill into my half-empty glass
of fumes and restlessness?

The sun will rise tomorrow, unknowing
of the raw labor it takes
to lift my body from its grave of sheets,
my heart a stone, unmoving.

The ceiling gnaws at the sky —
its teeth sink into my hours.
Dusk, with her damp palms,
presses me into forgetting.

And yet, from the balcony,
I see distant cities glitter like broken jewelry.
I do not ache for their songs,
their spinning dances, their crystal plates.

But the crowds — the crowds —
let them tear me limb from limb:
arms, legs, flesh, bone,
the soft, spoiled fruit of my mind —

let them take it all,
until nothing remains of yesterday’s weight.
Only leave me these eyes,
so I may witness the undoing.

#life