Rest Pause

Forget your anger, rustled the leaves
as rain washed over them.

Forget the hurt that has lain
long in the hollow of your bones.

Easy enough for you to say I railed, fist
raised, tender all over as a bruise.

Once I believed that things could be amulets:
suds that prismed as bubbles, floating away

from laundry I beat on a stone. Feathers
that birds dropped in flight,

sliver of moon worn as a silver
fetish around my neck, the crackled

wrecks of turquoise taken up from the soil.
And if I gave back my anger, what then?

O life, o body, I want to sleep as I
haven’t done in years— but not so deeply.

 

In response to Morning Porch and small stone (233).

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