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Call it Singing
by Marina DawnIt is a dance, it is a dance, presence and absence
emptied by presence, two thumbs at the sternum
opening like a verdict and within, what warmth was.
Winter I laid my head on a pillow of rocks
and snow, at daybreak melted and refroze, my ear to the soft
forking sound of ice cool in the crevices of cairns.
Because water breathes and this, the music of its inhalation pressing
diagphragms of stone, woven with the ribs, bone
buttresses and breath held until sun
until spring. It is a dance, memory
bent outward, thaw at the beveled edge
finger along the rim spilling a light
carelessly filled, the eyes' thin caves pierced by seeing
then the shrill din of grief, then the endless echo in
the eyes so tired they weep the backs of tears. 03/11/2006 Posted on 03/11/2006
Copyright © 2025 Marina Dawn
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Steven Kenworthy on 11/10/06 at 12:34 AM this is as raw and poetic as i think poetry gets. the epicenter of honesty and tragedy with a dash of human anatomy and philosophy. your work reads like a surgeon who has travelled the world 9 or ten times. delicious. |
| Posted by Tom Goss on 05/04/07 at 04:41 PM It is indeed singing, and I'll call you a diva of words. |
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