“I am fierce as ivy…” ~ D. Bonta

When the levels rise, it isn’t just the sea that’s changing.
In the cauldron, more things than climate are simmering.

Flex your fingers; open and close your fists while you sit on a cushion,
trying to breathe. Try to keep the green from rising into your eyes.

Try to keep down whatever’s pushing out of the container van of your chest,
each shipping box inside crammed full by volume and not by weight.

When sinews snap their binding threads, what buttons or stays
could keep the linen from tearing? Beneath the moon, the brute

that lived just under your skin lets loose its syllable
of long-drawn-out pain. What manner of stitch, what hot

glue gun could mend the holding cell after the break? Call
it home, make of one perfect tear an amulet for it to wear.


In response to Via Negativa: Displaced.

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