Schism

Standard

Drunk. Whisky scorches, steam descending
heavily, I’m handled by gravity.
And of energy wasted, I think of the caged bird and
read Maya Angelou for an explanation.

Justice is not done, and action is misplaced like
the absence of thunder. An explosion sucks
amnesty from the grave of guilt.
I come undone and my mind twists as
it climbs the wall cursing the evening tide.

I saw the lighthouse topple over and ships crash on the rocks.
I saw the airstrip lights go off and planes collide with asphalt.
I saw the ground open up and swallow little kids on tricycles.

Death wants more death, and inside I felt it knocking.
The curtain was curtailed and it showed a face
forlorn, a face I’ve known.

But away with split tongues. She’s young
and so am I. Hearts will be broken in the
days of youth. Romantic, we’re wet together,
compassionate like hot wax which never cools.
Lo! we’re going to split away. Cool
the wax or else we’ll divide and be free.

She grabs and indents me.
We’re splitting at the moment when I read
why the caged bird sings.

And I let go. I break apart suffering a dent
An incision which reads,
“She was here.”

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