brighn
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Poem: In Memorium
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Aug 20 18:31 UTC 1994 |
I debated briefly as to whether to explain this or not, then decided
to let it stand with just the dedication to explain it.
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In Memorium
(dedicated to a friend who died on the inside)
Last night I killed a friend.
With ax in hand,
I cleft her bone from bone,
joint from joint,
crying as I struck.
Tears streamed down my face;
sweat streamed down my face;
blood streamed down my face.
And still I cut,
and still I axed.
When I was finished,
my muscles ached,
but still I labored.
I fashioned boxes:
one for each piece.
Some were little.
Some were big.
But each I made with care,
and when I was finished,
I put in each box
a corresponding piece.
And I stacked the boxes up
so that,
were the wood to rot away,
were the nails to rust away,
were the boxes to disappear
on my command,
she would be whole again.
And for each strand of hair
I made a bag of paper.
I laid out the strips of pulp
and soaked them
and dried them
and made a bag
and put in each a strand of hair.
So that,
were the paper to melt away,
I would have her wig.
And I put aside each nail,
and I put aside each organ,
and I put aside each piece,
unto its own place.
And when I was finished
I cried.
I cried
and I waited.
Waiting for her to come back.
But she did not:
the boxes stayed whole,
the boxes stayed intact.
And I covered my face
with my bloody hands
and I cried.
When I took my hands away,
they had no blood.
They held flowers:
rose petals,
crushed and dry
from the heat of my hands.
I had no tears:
diamonds coursed down my face,
fragmented from my fear.
And the ax was gone,
and the bags were gone,
and the crates were gone.
All but one:
a small one;
a sturdy one.
I tore into it,
I pulled upon it,
until my skin was raw
and my nails pulled back.
But finally,
it opened.
And inside,
hollow and black,
was my heart.
And my friend,
whom I had never cut,
whom I had never boxed,
whom I had never bagged:
She was still dead.
7/94
Paul Kershaw
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