Iron bands rust,
oak cracks, leather rots.
Who we love,
seldom asked
how we love,
in truth,
in time, and in silence.
We pass wrecks in ditches,
going on and on,
wondering, or not,
about motion,
distance unmeasured,
in plodding leaps.
We weighed it in clasped hands,
crushed it under calloused feet.
Overwound watches
wait in the bureau drawer,
choking on a minute of history
as we polish our heels,
wandering in pasture,
in winter wheat,
over moonrise in her dewpond.
Wormy at the root,
we often fall, often fail in telling.
Our speech gets knotted,
song sours and soaks the dirt floor.
In still puddles of spilled whiskey
we struggle to the surface,
sucking and spitting bile.
What we knew was wrong is right,
wrong again and again we know love.
Broken in struggle, perhaps mended,
perhaps not.
Under the air was the heat of two.
On the sand we were burning.
In the long grass,
laid out in a little death.
Coyote watched as we walked.
Under her arm a loaf of bread,
on my shoulder his wild gaze.
Waiting for us to rust, to rot, to crack,
Coyote follows. We shall not be distracted,
nor shall we rest. The needle in my side
will never touch the core,
never pierce us.
Kalliope
Means "beautiful voice" from Greek καλλος (kallos) "beauty" and οψ (ops) "voice". In Greek mythology she was a goddess of epic poetry and eloquence, one of the nine Muses.
Join us every Tuesday afternoon at the Daily Kos community political poetry club.
Your own poetry is always welcome in the comments.
Bongos, berets & turtle neck sweaters optional.
The keyboard is mightier than the sword.
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