I expected a metaphor.

A saying to guide us.

Some blurry detail to wrap around our days.

It was wonderful.

And then it wasn’t.

I became possessed.

Low-level fury and sorrow joined hands.

I tried.

I really did.

Hoped to turn a corner and leave them behind.

Choking in the kicked-up dust.

But they dug in.

Started eating my heart one tender bite at a time.

It gets smaller by the day.

I barely register the doves now.

I used to cry when they rose like paparazzi from the field.

The sky would fill.

That was something I could hold…

the gods shamble
into line

at the edge of
fever

I draft an army
of snow-angels

to comfort them
I gather

and call across the
divide

you can’t take it
with you

but thumbs have been
on the scale so long that

justice isn’t blind
just ice thickened

with rusted saws ringing like
some guru rolling the dice like

I don’t mind anything that
happens don’t you know
even the sun will die

fine fine fine but listen here
we’re living now not then see

the birds beg for relief they
lead me out of the dark

take your blood…

every day they left a trail,
stopping just short of
the river,

and every day
I followed

losing track of time, the
waving reeds and evenings

but that day was different,
it was all so sudden

there she was

she turned around and
I wanted to run but

a whisper slipped from
her lips

fell to the earth and
slithered along my
spine

like fingers on keys

yes, I said, I can hear you

her clothes were torn and
a breeze passed between us

she bent low, spoke to the others,
we must keep the memory alive, yes,
I know it hurts…