I didn’t trust myself to hold on
when water breached and ice tore, sun burned, voices howled
when corridor echoed with the corrosion of a moment
elegantly stretched like garter made of guts, long and silent in worship
yet, there was no stone God to touch, lay our cheeks upon, in salvage, sweeten terror underfoot
nothing left to run together, keep us from the tear in our fabric, rescuing us afloat, over glacier, over sky, over each other and that blemish of life we call, survival
a call of the wild, a girl returning her party dress unworn, with dormant masks of fierce, loose in their bouquet
she’s tired now, of standing in doorways, blending in
she’s been leaning against herself so long, doves catch wind and pursing straight as falling sky mark the way
as a child may confidently point, before he is taught of error, a certitude of birth we lose, in continued correction
but what of the spirit? Wishing never to bend, as hazel makes a good switch and all sting redeems
what of the spring mad hare? Made jubilant despite his age, as pollen of the glory dusts his dance, does he unlearn?
those reprimanded, unwinding in backward spool, the yarn of time, loosens our punching collar and sore confine
pugilistic, we devolve to fetus and climb inside our charm. Wrung with the arms of tomorrow, the depth of spirit knows no ceasement
Once, twice, again, you cannot keep movement still, it begs for the last dance
choose then, remove your wild jig and join the machinists at their task to embroider the world, not with honesty but the pasty aftermath of souls behind glass, mouthing their marching song
or inherit the wind and best the exiled dream, misplacing sense in unchecked delight
There is no limit to what we are. Such is distance and teeming for years shaken, behind a well set trifle, awaiting the party-goer, cold on her white shelf
But touch once, and she’ll melt, with the longing of her frosting

0 Replies to “Wrung”

    1. So for four days I dream of living in Australia. I find out there is a way – you can do hard labor for 2 years and qualify that way. Rather draconian but … a possibility?

          1. Now that wouldn’t be too hard, would it ? You could still write poetry – odes to grapes, bananas, apples, the odd cucumber and tomato

        1. It happened to me about a year ago too. I’m just glad I found you again. I missed you and I hope you are doing as well as you can – please know I never forget you my friend

  1. Another poem rich with many layers. And again I’m overwhelmed with amazement at your images, one after another, creatively describing a life remembered. Metaphorically and literally…. Candice, I’m at a loss for words. Just know that your poetry always moves me deeply at a visceral level, and an emotional one.
    (Am getting behind with blog reading but hoping to catch up soon.)
    Love to you!

    1. For you to say that, when I absolutely feast on your work – well I must be doing something right. I see myself quite differently so this is both satisfying and much appreciated B.

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