3.15.2013

At Midnight, Listening

Something small told me to wait in silence,
but the bitter voice of my heart's scars
kept mourning every aching wound that cried out
at the mottled shadows of the night,

and that bitter voice of my heart's scars
said I was broken far beyond repair.
In the mottled shadows of the night,
I could not choose which darkness to believe,

whether “You are broken beyond repair,”
or “Hold on a little while; these wounds will mend”
held truth. How could I choose in darkness?
And from behind more voices murmured at me:

“Hold on, hold on to what? Your wounds won't mend,”
my splintered bones choked out. A laugh
came from the voices murmuring at me,
because that something small had tried to speak,

but my splintered bones choked out a laugh
to silence any sound that whispered hope.
Because that something small had tried to speak,
the others cried out louder, but they only

clamored over sounds that still whispered hope;
they filled the insides of my ears with lies,
but soon they tired of crying, till only
the song of night rain washing tired streets

was left to cradle lies inside my ears.
I heard that haunting pulse within my ribs:
the song of night rain washing tired streets
said these scars would never fade (though I thought

I felt a different pulse behind my ribs,
a gentle touch almost enough to heal)--
These scars will never fade, I thought,
but something small told me to wait in silence.

--
A/N: Check out another pantoum on the same theme, written by the fantastic Emmie. 

3.13.2013

For a Moment

Beloved,
drink with me this
light-drenched memory:

the dark blur of a watercolor forest
at the field's far end, where
edges of swollen husks hardened
under withering, tea-stained petals
and whispered of colder days to come;

the gentle brush
of pale grass against your neck,
holding your slender throat
and shoulders close in
ancient arms of dust and clay;

a twilight that seemed to stretch forever,
sun-streaks repainting the sky
a hundred times--
each hour, another wine-soaked layer.

a creaking swing,
a bench for both of us,
warm wind like honey in my mouth;

we slept, and oh,
the cicadas' laughing
carried us till morning.