Poetry Whitney Gray — May 12, 2011 14:02 — 0 Comments
When I Return – Whitney Gray
I will be heavy with dirt,
tangled in roots. The thick
green coil in my throat
will unravel—kudzu.
Is this what has choked
me for so long? I will spit
dust. Exhale. Clean my lungs.
What is left of me:
ribs, hair without a curl,
a hollowness
that never filled.
I can no longer resist
the sleepless shadow
that has followed me—
the blackbird on the ledge.
Past the pineapple sage,
I will drag myself
along the creek bed.
I have no secrets,
no pearls to barter.
In each life, I have
given what I have to each
crying mouth.
If I find my children
and they are starving,
I will cut off my hands
and sell them for bread.
What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney
