VISCERAL VINDALOO

Stories with a horse, ghosts, depression, alcohol, houses

The loss inside me burns like a flag

in a rainy, October night.

Beaten and dreanched.

My heart pounds on top my chest-I will not let it in.

My feet are numb but I don’t care enough to find socks.

I will never forget this day, I pledge.

And so I haven’t.

“Sincerity flowers” thrown in the garbage.

 

The first hardness of my face I’ve felt in my lifetime-granite.

Like a cold stone or crystal held in my palm I could not warm up.

Something I could not keep close forever-

not allowed to even see.

Perhaps its first resting place was the river when I picked it up-

rolled it through my hand.

But it fell out somehow, some where;

the river takes its new child

given back.

The forest sings its chills of Winter.

I sit in the bay window

looking out at the snow-

more encompassing than any feeling I could have.

 

 

 

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