I still feel like a boy sometimes,
tempted to roll out
toward the edge of things,
where the Earth falls away
into silence,
and the warm dark swallows me whole.
I lie here,
stillness itself,
lost in the scent-memory
of my mother’s dying breath.
I am there, fully—
with her agonal breathing,
cold pale limbs,
and I am outside,
in the palm’s slow sway
under the warm subtropic night,
undifferentiated.
With her final burgundy heartbeats
fading,
I am singing
in the last chorus
of ten thousand cicadas.
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 9:42 AM UTC
I still feel like a boy sometimes,
tempted to roll out
toward the edge of things,
where the Earth falls away
into silence,
and the warm dark swallows me whole.
I lie here,
stillness itself,
lost in the scent-memory
of my mother’s dying breath.
I am there, fully—
with her agonal breathing,
cold pale limbs,
and I am outside,
in the palm’s slow sway
under the warm subtropic night,
undifferentiated.
With her final burgundy heartbeats
fading,
I am singing
in the last chorus
of ten thousand cicadas.