Last one.
Oh, because I don't have another title, sorry.
Oh, that poem, noted the silence,
like a wall of feathers, fragile.
How far I was, but enough to block from the loop
the circuit of time.
Homeward, adobe walls, roads of dust.
How long?
32 years I've lived until the bones discoursed.
Startling, yes.
The head turns toward disbelief.
And the baby, she is promise.
Maybe not.
Ungraspable mist, a quiet one, no fuss, shrieks.
Yearn, yearn, yearn in the night until dirt fills my grave.
How much life?
Heart pounds, each throb.
Will it ask the question mark of us tattooed on our skin?
Who can no longer call it wait or rest,
stare this lunge back at the sun into what can't afford to swim.
Where?
Another shore.
And how arms flailing muster the joints' acidic burn.
Love, is this what it was in darkness,
only not knowing, things intersecting,
what we held within when the Earth, turning, bending,
reaching the trees, the hair-thin stream of self
tunnels Oh, anticipant dig.
To hold the burden like a need, and to sleep,
and let a new life begin.
Thank you so much.