Is like holding a tapestry as it
unravels, its colours smear to a blur
of loss, the silks snag, the needles pierce.
Your fingers fumble with the slippery
threads. We are bereft, erased, annulled.
Night comes on in increments, a slow
revocation of light. We learn to lean
against its narrow sides hoping it will hold
its shape, bear us up the way depthless
dark water holds the night.
It needs to energize us with a rage
that roars unchecked through the blood
and bring us begging to our knees;
this planet is the only place we have to live,
this one small foothold
we need to fall in love with it again.
See it exotic and wonderful,
pick up the loose stitches, tether ourselves
even tighter to the sky, perfume the wind
with the smell of lust, pour ourselves
into the sea. We must take root
in the aquamarines, the greens, and endless
violet sunsets living at the end of love.
Today’s poem is from Jean O’Brien’s latest collection, Stars Burn Regardless (Salmon Poetry)
unravels, its colours smear to a blur
of loss, the silks snag, the needles pierce.
Your fingers fumble with the slippery
threads. We are bereft, erased, annulled.
Night comes on in increments, a slow
revocation of light. We learn to lean
against its narrow sides hoping it will hold
its shape, bear us up the way depthless
dark water holds the night.
It needs to energize us with a rage
that roars unchecked through the blood
and bring us begging to our knees;
this planet is the only place we have to live,
this one small foothold
we need to fall in love with it again.
See it exotic and wonderful,
pick up the loose stitches, tether ourselves
even tighter to the sky, perfume the wind
with the smell of lust, pour ourselves
into the sea. We must take root
in the aquamarines, the greens, and endless
violet sunsets living at the end of love.
Today’s poem is from Jean O’Brien’s latest collection, Stars Burn Regardless (Salmon Poetry)
