In my fondest scene of final liberty, before freedom transmuted to debris, everything was smothered-emerald glass, drown-bride grey, earthy-wet and fertile in my memory.
I excavate the loam of Ireland’s splintery bones in my graveyard dreams. I devour the moon surface of the windswept burren. There I am, artless skin, shuttered stare, dissolving against the purging sun. An alchemical zeal moistured into me an urge forever to weep.
I stole a spell-piece of stone from an icy gale, conjoined with a flower-twin, enslaved it for its precious prison color to hoard for my drowsy life. A myth reminder. And even now it’s throbbing pigment dies somewhere, unsmooth. Mislaid it’s magick leaguing oceans.
Here parade heartsick clouds, the revenant lacquer of grandfathers eyes before he died, an endless chain of cobblestone bruises and strangle-spoken veins. Crooked underneath neglected dirt, the effigy milk-maiden, the howling birthmother, the herb potion crone. The coursing rage of painted man that floods to the enemy, the empty toy teeth, the starving child, covered face.
I fantasize the chronicled doom of the cloister, living in the curl of a question mark, a forgotten spine. Catlike once, warm and purring, now waxy phantom and claw. She lived in the shard of a reliquary yonder, a rotten tooth on a hill she died on, no where to flee. Nothing edible but horror, waste, shame.
The tour guide thrills a finger toward a tide of wilting headstones, the crumpled lovenotes of fallen castles, the tiny littering spookshows of a famine.
I’ve never listened more closely for ancient whispers, waiting breathless for a whimper.
words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.