I feel myself descending into the wet Earth: Mother.
A sort of backwards resurrection.
The water moves up and then down slowly,
My hand is in hers; I am under her tide.
They call it falling.

Devout prayers hanging on salt watered rosary beads
Like little icicles.
Blessed Mother Mary, grant me three syllables
To cure the monotony of my single heartbeat.

Vines planted from seedlings
Have grown, have intertwined my feet and I become
An ivy-laced mausoleum.
I hold the dead inside.
It keeps the cool inside.

Words have set our love on fire.
It burns like a spirit; I have only ashes inside.

The shovel I found dug you up
And your green rust memory.
I play it over and over: My three syllable record.
I was right when I told her
I would never need to hear another word again.

07/16/2009

Author's Note:
Words (specifically "I love you") mean nothing once you've learned that they can be spit out like bad gum.

Once though, they meant everything.

Repeat them and you'll always remember how you felt when they once meant the world to you.

Memories are like records we file away in the backside of our head.

Posted on 07/16/2009
Copyright © 2024 Wendy Geal