I pin the anemic bodies
of poems
to the bed of palm
like they are cadavers
waiting to be
d i s s e c t e d.
This is the
only
way
I know to
make sense of things,
each enjambed line
a heartbeat closer
to understanding this
sadness
(or letting
go
of
it).
I gawk at the contents
of the shelves
that live amongst the
curdling strips of wallpaper.
Yellowing mason jars,
each containing some
tragic specimen swimming in
formaldehyde tears--
Plath's last breaths;
Sexton's paper cut fingertips;
Van Gogh's severed flesh.
The sight of this
ghastly collection
sends the scars on my wrists
into a spiralling ache.
I once made the mistake
of assuming poetry
would instantaneously
exorcize the aching--
it only brought me closer.
But I must remember
that bleeding is the last stop
on the route to mending;
it's gotta hurt
before it can heal.
So I write,
bear the sting
of these words
as they stitch together
the tattered patchwork
of my heart;
until the scars meet
at the pinnacle
of my anatomy,
crisscross,
bright constellations
flowering from the darkness,
starlit tulips
that shake the
sorrowed dew drops
from their rain-torn petals,
celestial hieroglyphs
waiting to be read--
This is your history;
not your future.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!
jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple
(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
