out of solace

By | 7 October 2021

we marked June
with sympathy flowers
left on a doorstep.
obnoxiously yellow
& innocent, followed by
the usual surrender

it was not language but its inverse
cradled between us

small words of comfort
scattered like breadcrumbs
fed to lost pigeons
before flight. I’m sorry

I never get the words right
the first time. every day
I workshop a list
of what I love most, or
what is within reach
though they are not always
the same.
some things are easy enough.
the scent of
camphor on a winter morning
under the sun; the sun,
a fine silk glove
draped over my hands.
my initial response to touch,
which is to scrutinise.
how loneliness
diffuses my need
to be alone & even this

is too close. someone
on the internet says
the catharsis of tragedy
is our own suffering
fed back to us, so I replay
old movies in search for a pain
that is familiar. I cut
my hair in the bathroom
with my eyes averted
from the mirror
distracted by the threads
unspooling at my bare feet;
pieces of myself I could discard
or collect. I admit,

it was embarrassing
to want to live so badly. I was
embarrassed. —the petals lifted
to the wind I turned my face away
in silence I had nothing
to say after all, I was the only one
still growing older.

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