How to precisely describe the condition
of being cloven?
In the past participle, this word might resemble a weed
we hunt in the grass, its fourth leaf brimming
with the old myths of childhood, with the promise
of being the one a hand might pick
out of a hundred nearly identical copies in the field—
And is there a word for the new
scar inflicted by your silence? for how it’s fallen
on a threshold where we’ll walk, knowing
every other door is barred from within? In this world,
the cold, hard bread of the moon leaves
a trail for the broken to follow: they come to the water
looking for a thistle, a lily; silver shoots along its hairline.
Who knows how long it will take. Who knows if by then
we’ll remember the sound of each other’s voice.
In response to Via Negativa: Personal Growth.