05.12.2024

by storm

dreamers:

 you be a girl with a pile of white 

bones and teeth. a shape resembling 

antlers entangled in there too 

your heap is coming undone 

crumbling as skeletons in the desert 

you be a girl having conversations 

with your bone-heap, asking childish questions 

like; “why are we alone” or “does a whale have ribs?” 

cause you keep dreaming you have this 

whale-rib wand 

you tell the heap 

you are afraid the lump in your chest 

is the tip of a deeper, diving issue 

that perhaps all your inner oceans are 

contaminated 

you tell the heap 

you dream of the women of your childhood 

a mode of sorrow running in their veins 

all succumbed to wounds they carried in silence 

that you will swing your wand, saying prayers 

over peasant thoughts of sorrow