July 30 by The Running Son
✭✮ state of the poet ✭✮
In January a tone followed me through dreams.
Awake, its off frequency grew roots
in raw places—tiny wet hairs where
re-opened wounds breathed hot, and groans cloaked
Meanings turned brown and cancers went
red and February sliced death on a
cold bed; my father bleeding out
six hours beneath flashing silver blades and
March faded to vacuum black. Clouds clapped
heart roots rotted grit black
and black wind chapped final heart loams
And In that mist, no gods would follow.
Clouds tumorous and evolving
closed round me til I lost direction,
let chills set, in bone, hardened to grey and
Then, clays broke, brown. Roots fanned thin,
and spring tap chutes, sent deep,
went foraging, attention to earth’s
sleep, seeking minimum nutrition to birth anew
Then God stripped, complete. Eyes burned twice;
born by ice, forced once in Christ (by
yeast formed right). A Star, and northern
sighs will guide wings fanned east into folding arms,
an alchemy for light.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.