Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site


Poetry By: Alex Jose

''but you know i hated to close the dog-gone door on you''

Submitted:Jul 20, 2010    Reads: 62    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   

There are some nights when I reel uncontrollably; in the wake of the day I collapse I crush with the weight of my foolishness. And I buckle me down like some lurching sick hare thing, holding tight broke and mewling; pinned down trembling form. While I pray that these arms meld a hundred years forward to another, who's deadened the burn in a faith-suffused grip, and he's skinned me and choked up the shifting with those arms holding hard. They're my arms and I just need collecting, let's be ancient winged antiquities, I'm holding in all you've done, chewing lip I'm ornate, poised like porcelain.
Some nights I shake until morning, sworn round the need for reclaiming. I wish for more time and I wish you might know me when I'm loved and I'm full and not so lost in surly outward-ness. I gather myself; find my expounded vows cold and hanging in the grey light. See my trundle in and pause at disregard, watch me fall and fight the futility, friend I'm dead (won't you tell me to rise; chime of downcast bell eyes and I'll worship and adore you forever un-mended).
Call-out to the lined up sick deer (and any unsung thorn-locked chorister); shout them silent with love. I'm donning my heart to ear wire and I'm making them better. There are some days when I catch the glint of vacant blown-glass antlers, under my mess of half-tended creatures and I see they've been strapped to my crown, and now I know how all those rooks did see you here in my head.
Last night I thought I'd get mindless and rabbit-like in the warmth of your wholeness, but I remained still and just a little lovelorn. I felt content at the end of your suffering, in spite of the nights (every night) when I stagger alone into small mammal writhing; I was hushed and so pleased that you had found safety. Nodding and feeling those yet-to-come arms real around me, making faith and self worth inside. Some nights I leave you be and feel the hollow start to fill with hope. Don't fuel his bird-war, don't goad the flock of wings that make and break him; I am forming farewells and living off prayers alone.


| Email this story Email this Poetry | Add to reading list


About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.