3rd of July

Wet, green, gravel in my shoes

and drips in my hair,

full of chlorophyll and light and smell of

earth sweating into it’s sap –

and I am failing to be alive.

Again.

Rocks, trees, rivers.

Virginia, Virginia,

pools of brown suds and floating leaves

and the eager pull of river sludge over

rocks, aged,

beaten out of shape by too much water and too much

life,

running over them,

until they lay down and shut their eyes,

their own weight pulling them under.

 

I think about what my hands might find,

falling gently into cold sludge;

bones, fish, flowers –

quietness.

Virginia, did the water taste bitter?

did it sting your eyes in the end?

 

I am hot with sickness,

blocked up with failure.

I feel heavy enough today.

 

 

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2 thoughts on “3rd of July

  1. This reminds me of a poem I read once by Karen Ethelsdatter. The last bit was, “women are born with stones in their pockets/ empty them empty them swim” That image has stayed with me. I stopped to say thanks for the “like” on the saltwater twin. Happy to have found you.

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