Ah yes

it is said being melancholy can beckon dementia

sometimes in the fog of sadness I understand too well

before the feeling wraps me in wool and drags me to rivers edge

it is also said families carry the weight of melancholy

like a tattered ball of twine lost in thick woods

will never lead you to safety

I wish I could rinse out this inherited stain

like the clothes I pound against rocks to clean

when we camp in the moors, lost to everything

save the graceless sunder of colorless sky

holding its rain like I might hold my saline

you haven’t seen me cry because I gave that up

along with map-reading and fortune-telling

it seemed a divination I didn’t need

instead I wish for quiet nights like these

lying beneath stars inhaling balsam and fir, almost able to pretend

I am whole and settled like a thick winter blanket

and not temporal spirit fitting with grief and unsaid things

for you, my ancestors will dream beneath dark earth

listening to the flicker of day to night

a herons marshy reflection on water

the soft tread of wordless auburn deer

and that weight in my throat, an iron key

to someone’s padlocked life

I take it down into the deep

it helps me sink

mocking my former wish

to swim for air

9 Replies to “Padlock”

  1. I come from this picturing such a moor, and in it a bog, and in the bog, a deep pond of melancholy, so like the ones into which the sacrificed ones were placed, only to be found strangely preserved millennia later.

  2. Ah there is my favorite rainbow woman. It is always such a joy to see you here. Thank you dearling.

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