the scent of sage

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


we walk

 

the spin up narrow clef 

 

The hint of where you’d been the pale scratches down deep obsidian walls.

I know before I know, before we see the

 

swing of feet in shrugging air,

 

My hands reach to reach you, to pull you free of the skirt of veil, from the grasp of

ones already slipped, 

 

calling you back from the bright,

but no Lazarus does come forth.

 

We whiff the sage from the high passes and wrap you tight,

a sheave to carry down to her,

 

to mother,

 

sitting and praying you back, her hands clenched around the steering wheel

of your blueblack, dog-eared car.


Submitted: November 03, 2020

© Copyright 2020 Scott Livingston. All rights reserved.

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