The dirt embedded beneath my fingernails -
so perfectly, so fully now,
[I could grow things there
but for the lack of sunlight]–
I raise my hands above me again, certain this time
I’ll break through.
I have mastered the art of shallow breathing,
parting my lips just barely and just long enough
to draw life in one infinitesimal dose at a time;
dose after dose after tiny dose meticulously spaced
with long, breath-holding pauses in between...
my very own near-morbid Morse code.
My eyes, useless in the unforgiving dark,
surrender to the images that are born of blindness.
I am in a house, bare foot and barely dressed;
half awake. I am smiling.
The smell of fresh coffee fills
the room, my tomb, as a gentle breeze
[that cannot exist here]
drifts in through an open window
and dances across my skin.
Another night is setting in.
I can hear rainfall and give myself
temporary permission to believe that I can
feel its moisture seeping through
to wet my fingertips - promptly
forgetting that I meant it
to be momentary thing.
In the dark, I feel the air warm
between us as you lean into me.
The beautifully familiar feeling
of your head laying itself to rest
upon my chest as the storm moves in,
feels like coming home.
For a moment, I’m no longer alone.
Behind you, my fingers continue to
work the earth. Their scratching, the patter
of rain, your heartbeat, my Morse code…
fuse into a twisted, endless rhythm.
Somewhere above [beyond this place]
the trees bend themselves to listen.
The line between what is and is not
fades as life moves on without me.
I am suddenly certain your hair is grayer
than the last time I held you –
even my worthless eyes can’t manage
to deny the truth of this.
I pause and in Morse code, I wish.
The dirt embedded beneath my fingernails -
so perfectly, so fully now –
I raise my hands above me again…
.-.- -. -.. -. -. /..-. -.-. /.- /.-.. - -. -. -..- /..-...-.-...-.. / -....-...- -.....-.-.-
a remarkable and unique write..spectacularly done! outstanding!
Their scratching, the patter of rain, your heartbeat, my Morse code… fuse into a twisted, endless rhythm I turn the rosary of breath an excuse to caress the taut unbroken thread of your existence a reason perhaps to indulge in moment long orgiastic absence to become an intern an apprentice in Lord's garage of conception [Thanks for inspiring it]
Shades of 'Premature Burial'...wonderfully complex poem...reality, metaphor, fantasy...the reader is left in the dark to his own thoughts...great job...Coach
Absolutely superb poem Christine! ! ! One wonders...is this a flashback and this person is actually safe at the moment...or is this reality and she is dreaming of much more pleasant circumstances. Being buried alive, or held captive in a tomb of dirt, must surely be one of the scariest scenarios a person could fathom! You have done an excellent job of describing this to the reader. Hugs, Dee
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
And still we dream of darkness only to reach for the light we sometimes miss.A ten from me and a very complicated presentation...a psychological thriller..