Sometimes words can bring about a death.

Cataclysms can often be spoken into being.

For three years after that conversation

I recovered from the ripping.

I drunk myself into the carpet

Then spent a month of thirsty nights.

I forced myself to stare at blood

Til I could no longer register the colour red.

I dragged myself to dances and

I clapped until my fingerprints were worn smooth.

I built myself a deep core of joy

And I was convinced you wouldn’t be able to touch it.

                     Then we met again and I found out

                     You no longer wanted to.

 

We sat side-by-side in the dark

Listening to a velveteen woman

Sing about the Mississippi River.

Sometimes words can bring about a death.

Cataclysms can often be spoken into being.

And yet no electric current is holding us still.

Our ribcages rise open, fall shut, easily,

like bluegrass accordions.

I felt that we no longer needed

To dig and fill our own graves

Bone after weary bone.

After the concert I gave you a sheaf of my writings

And you handed me your manuscript.

Together we formed

A waterlogged Book of Revelation.

 

Dead stars blink again, out of the dark,

Coming back alive.

After three rotations of some unit in time,

They have finally decided to shine, peacefully,

Though never quite so brightly as before.

 

 

(Image by poet)