Have we considered how
the branch and the breeze used to both be green?
That this string used to be tied
from my bedroom mirror right to the feather
and the fear of falling.
And everyone always says I’m a bird.
There’s nothing like knowing you were stranded,
there’s nothing like this.
The art of forgetting.
I keep mistaking this place
for a fossil. I'm an expert in letting go
and returning. This house has begun to memorise
my mornings. Somewhere in the attic,
I have discarded an old religion and
that pomegranate tree.
One branch burnt and the other
a pregnant promise.
Just out of reach.
And watch me please,
So I don’t fall
out of myself. There trickles the curled lip
of childhood. When I was 9
I convinced a girl
I was a god.
So watch me please,
I know trees falling are falling but
if the thunder really does roll right through me,
I’m returning to myself.
Photo Credit: Unsplash
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