Wistful

Another midnight
Visitation,
The serving dream:
Drinking poison again
With hatchet in hand.

A feast on my shoulders,
Well carried.
A drink for you
And for you
And one for me too.

All the holiness
Of being in
A body
And the simplicity
Of that work.

Safety of the cultural
Barricades
That make it possible
To be so much within
The people’s world.

Table and chairs
Or a line
Dividing these:
Blue light stage,
Raucous bohemian color blur.

How could I not
Miss it?
And is this all it was for?
These regrets?
We believed once.

Blowing off religion
To stand on a river bluff
And call the wind.
Watching the valley fill
And empty —

Water,
Then bluebells,
Then green on green,
Fallen leaves,
Dangerous snow on the banks.

And all those people
Behind the lights
Who hung on
Every word,
And no one remembers the words, now.

Strangers and sisters,
Lovesick boys,
Tempting girls,
And who cares if the band
Was good?

Or if the crowd
Encroached?
We were pretending
We were not children.
It is all still somewhere.

And it wasn’t always
This way.
Yes,
Solitude
Was always medicine.

But there was
A time when
The people —
The ones who listened —
Were healers, too.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

One response to “Wistful”

  1. hedgewitch says :

    This rang like a bell–each stanza a peal that penetrates to the old bones and makes them vibrate with their own past–which means, fine writing. The last stanza blew me completely away. There’s not an unnecessary word or superficial moment here.

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