Lament of a Burning Hollow
The tree that
perches in the soil of me
and fondles all
my cares
is empty
save one
and I have left
it ripening
for you.
Take it, this orb
of flesh and feeling,
this fruit of yearning
and hope.
Palm it, my years
of untouched skin
until you are
ready to feed your desire.
If I could, I
would wash my hands
of my shame,
gather my crazy from
the tendrils of
your memory,
each day a pebble
rustling.
I would leave
this crusted-over
sagging heavy
load in the midst
of burning
thistles,
all thorns
aflame,
leaving roots
ready to stretch,
a soil
refreshed anew.
Some say desire
is a fire
but all I have
is the shape of emptiness,
of missing you;
the thread of
silence
coils around
this heart.
The hole within
grows as it clenches;
when I am near
you, the ache enlarges
into the hollow
shape of your touch.
It is as if you
are no longer real;
no one’s life
exists until it is shared.
You are no one now.
No one loves
me.
No one wants to
touch me.
No one fills my
heart.
No one fades to
a whisper.
No one is in
the wind.
No one has seen
it
blowing the tears
I do not cry.
Tansy Julie the
Soaring Eagle Paschold
10.14.23
written in
Norfolk Library’s Writing Lab, pulling words and ideas from various poems and
stories
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