You ask what I was raised from.
I want to say death; it held me so long.
Seedpods in the fields like burnt houses,
grass turned to matches. Somewhere
clouds hung their ghosts over crawling green,
thick with rain.
I was never dead and yet I was; how else
did they bury me? The bone rollers came,
put me under as a sunset flamed to rust.
The cells of earth crumble a thousand years
to brown ash.
You need a name, to be saved. I took mine
from skeletons like words no one could re-assemble.
You spoke mine, down with beasts at the tide,
past a gate the wind spread like iron lips.
You wanted me, did you, to come back.
Do you still?
1 November 2012