8/12/2023 - haiku - "Every year, from around July 17 to August 24, our planet Earth crosses the orbital path of Comet Swift-Tuttle, the parent of the Perseid meteor shower. Debris from this comet litters the comet’s orbit, but we don’t really get into the thick of the comet rubble until after the first week of August. The bits and pieces from Comet Swift-Tuttle slam into the Earth’s upper atmosphere at some 130,000 miles (210,000 km) per hour, lighting up the nighttime with fast-moving Perseid meteors." (~EarthSky link)
My throat is heavy with August’s sorrows I sit by the shore and wait for the weakest waves to drown my little feet — I stagger over them like a clumsy giant. But it’s seaborne sadness wraps, a constant, unrelenting embrace like a mother’s grief, a gentle creature’s death, a rabid dog feasting on a poor, meatless bone. I am alive — so cruelly alive for it all as it falls
down my throat, down my chest like a child’s pained whisper. My body is heavy with August’s weight as I retire to my filthy bed and hold myself.
Cold are the nights in their quiet, lackadaisical, taunting hours.
Come now, September. Come, kindly, if you please; sweep me away into a million, invisible dust particles suspended
I name all of my lovers after months now and all roads lead to August and the Roman cities we’ve burned — how she walked on crumbling streets as I held the matches — this poem is a page for burning at its tip: a lone match, scalding — a firelit kiss but the flames have always been a hypnotic sight like a woman perched in your sunlit bed — her hair, red as flames licking my neck, red as love that bleeds on itself; it leaves a stain on pretty things.
Now her skin has silk sheets burning away like banners in a Roman cathedral, her half-breath kisses, dying — now embers, tainting my dress black where her lips had staked a claim. Now her touch is wildfire crawling on my skin and I am a wounded doe — waiting. waiting. waiting.
The only world I know burns to the ground before my very eyes and we are no phoenixes, darling; all we do is burn.
Written September 6, 2021 First published in Love, Girls' 1st zine issue, SAGISAG Link: https://tinyurl.com/ReadSagisag
i watch you and all i see are deviant rays hiding the sorrow in flowers, while the night is falling, and falling, on the ****** moon, like honey glued in the lines of the palms, Masters of the Zenit, flowing like sand from the fists, on the other side of the dawn