The shape of it

It wears the skin of a storm-
not in fury, but with the stillness that precedes it,
when the clouds gorge themselves on swallowed names
and the wind forgets which way to stumble home.
It lives in the press of air too heavy to breathe,
a hush so loud it bruises your ribs

It drips along the curve of a lover’s back turned away,
warm but waning, with dwindling want
Fingers drift without destination,
and even dreams avoid eye contact.

It moves like the low tide sea,
Sun-bleached beach in its wake
and leaving salt behind.
There are voices in the swells-
with questions that never reach the shore
And you learn to float on the hope that you won’t, either.

It aches like war in the marrow,
smoke curling through memory
where language used to live.
And buildings, bodies, beliefs.
And people.
It is the fire moving through, and it leaves you grasping at the ash
But mostly at the absence.

It kneels with you at the grave,
both as comfort and companion.
You speak to the stone as if it breathes,
the way he once did.
Voice breaking-
the quiet listens too carefully,
as if it might answer back
God, the “if” and “might” are painful.

So this is its shape, then.
Not quite storm, and definitely not love.
A question unheard, and all that you can’t unhear, too, though you’ve tried.
It’s the maybes that never become
and never stay

It only lingers, ashamedly,
in the places we mistook to be our own

Reviews

[Lara]

I like this, joey.
I get the sense of great gravitas - without feeling too far pulled under, and still let to breath...
Nice work!