Letting

The Dirty Limerick

Coarse motes
of
volcanic ash
swirl and stream

inside this
untamed atmós.

They nibble in
sharp, little stings
on the tender
pink membranes

at the joints of
my eyelids.

——

Eardrums burst
by
hot vapor, and

eyeballs abraded
by
violent
gusts,

I impel this
body move on,
in short, sure
steps.

——

My left heel
catches a slick—

screams out a rubber
squeak of
thick
liquid, trapped
between
sole and stone.

I have slipped
in blood—
my own blood.

It smells,
and I am stilled;

because

it is not the sickly
ferrous tinge of
the wounded and
dying—

it smells like
lavender
and honeysuckle—

a red-black,
arterial nectar
to ink my
footprints.

——

Blind, deaf, and
bathed in
uncommon fragrance—

one of haîma
and
spring blooms—

I stamp out my
path;

flung
forward,

certain of
nothing but
movement,

with teeth
and
bones bared.

——

If you,
too, lose
your way in

View original post 17 more words

Author: Sudden Denouement

A Literary Collective

9 thoughts on “Letting”

    1. I would thank you instead. So, thank you for your words.

      Nothing wrong with a little recklessness. I’ve been producing poetry at a greater pace than I ever have, historically. It’s easy to feel like one’s words start to wane limp and lifeless after a time. I say keeping it raw and reckless is the cure. I’m glad that came through in this piece for you.

      Like

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