Hyssop

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Purification, death, water, life, rebirth

Submitted: March 18, 2008

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Submitted: March 18, 2008

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Hyssop




There is a flower that has been trampled
By boots and tanks and city streets,
That knows our names and hearts, that place
Within our chests with blankness written out
A cavity gaping wide exposing nerves.
Our hearts are vacant tonight, you and I
Like rooms in hotels someone slept in.
But there is no amount of rent,
No amount of money can pay to sew us whole.
The flower meanwhile sits and rests
But always active, growing, suffering
On thrones, on corners.
There is a vacuum, there is a record
Of all that we have done somewhere
In time.
I asked the woman, "Is there really a child
Inside your stomach? Is there really
A person you would bring to life?"
There is a flower amidst all this haunted
Asphalt, there is a sun behind the clouds,
Polluted smoke, the sooty sky.
The Irish used to cry at births,
Thinking someone in another world
Had died. But really it is all perishing:
Little children know the flower better
Than you and I.


© Copyright 2017 SJJ Stafford. All rights reserved.

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