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Fissure

by Dane Campbell

Embedded in the forest floor is a cradle,
a fissure formed from ancient tiers of rock
in which torrential rain softens to a sob.
This is where I want to die, and when I do,

no longer will I be sealed inside
that silver car I must remember,
riding forever, always going too far
with the immoveable
hand of god or the devil
heavy and thick upon my thin, young knee.

There is a silver knife in the kitchen drawer.
It was made to slice tomatoes,
but it would do to cut
through human skin as well.
It is sharp. Impossibly sharp. And it can sever a life,
were it so aimed to that end.

It can thrust
far and away
the hand of god or the devil.
Forever and ever. Amen.

04/03/2014

Posted on 04/03/2014
Copyright © 2021 Dane Campbell

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gail Wolper on 04/05/14 at 12:20 AM

with the immoveable hand of god or the devil heavy and thick upon my thin, young knee. These lines priceless. However it does seem you were not quite certain how to end it. Nice one, though.

Posted by Rob Littler on 05/06/14 at 05:46 AM

hmm...wanting to die in a fissure, buried, in sob and sigh...makes me sad that in the face of the image of freedom from life and the memories that plague us all--forcing desires of escape--release should be so eternally confining. Well done.

Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 02/11/15 at 12:38 PM

I love the whole notion of this ode.

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