I Buried Myself with Her Bones
I Buried Myself with Her Bones
I buried myself
with her bones,
smelling the musty
wetness of the dirt,
feeling the pressure
of it above me,
emerging as a wilted flower,
a stem of sorts —
suffocating from her
memory, even though
my frail petals caressed
drops of rain from above.
I cannot separate
her roots from mine
though I try each day
to be different,
to blossom into
a flower that leans
into the midday sun,
but I am on the edge
of moonlight —
I always have been.
Just a whispered flow
of darkness, and like
a self-preserving floret,
I fold into myself.
I have no sylvan charm,
no skill at uprooting myself
to transcend imagination
and meaning.
I am not fertile ground
for a dramatic exit,
so I stay put, trying
to convince passing rains
that I am sated.
Growing as a volunteer,
my frail stem quivers
and wants to be pulled
back into earth again,
to be enveloped by soil
and succumb to the
breathlessness of it all,
though I fear I will reemerge
from earth’s womb,
dull and senseless
as dry grass on a windy day.
