The people never give up their liberties but under some delusion.
Speech at County Meeting of Bucks, 1784
It doesn’t rain here, it pours
the sky basks in limitless red
assembling each night beyond
the sound of deafening birds.
Every day, a gulp remains in my throat,
that you’re not here and I could not
take a boat and row you across,
row you in, or row you into mine.
Coming miles, miles away from you,
is the most fearless thing I ever did
and every day I wake up putting
pieces together– I’m no good at puzzles,
they starve me while I, mindlessly–
sweep my eyes on the look you had
when I turned, walked those steps
from you. A memory etched in my skull
siphons, distorting into a faceless grimace.
It’s dense and labyrinthine,
hanging about my feet until the miles I walk
are fields and deserts made of glistening sand.
I know a lot about where I come from
but here, the unfamiliar side of the bed
and the pouring rain, slowly put on dresses
of sequins and delusions, offering clothes,
chanting godless euphemisms which
I fail to comprehend.
Time flows significantly different here,
I can’t seem to get familiar with its pace,
footsteps often recede through the night
as the doors with keys jingle and unlock
with a rattling noise below mine.
Here I am breaking into sweat,
A distant dream of home is lit,
The fire engulfs the flames and
I have arrived, I have arrived at the sea.
The language is foreign, the words are
carefully raised, mixed with hints of alarms.
every sentence constructed is a cliff
and every person can hear the tide.
It remains, in my throat, the fear of
being alone that recalls being alone,
the loneliness felt here is unparalleled.
The vestiges of smoke, the feeble ones
are in denial of touching lips, the act
only lasts so long, it burns as a fire
and takes forms flailing, flames fanned for
moments– the mirror shown is merciless.
It must be a fever dream,
to wake up estranged at dawn
to lower the blinds in a hospital room
sitting across a lonely ghost.