a poem from the perspective of a dying soldier
Strewn, tossed, asunder.
Not of water, nor of knowledge,
but of patience.
Of quietudes, of constance, of gibberish.
Laid not in state, nor in rest
but in motion, in chaos, in gentle ripples.
I think this is purgatory.
I will not die, but I shall not recover.
I will not forget these contortions, these contusions, this contradiction of nature.
I shan't forget, I shall not, I won't, I can't, god forgive me, I want to, please.
spurting, teeming, aplenty
thicker than water, burnt into memory,
this isn't knowledge, you can't know this.
This is. This is. This is all around me.
Perpetual motion, they said it wasn't possible,
but i'm shivering, i'm shaking, god help me, i'm rocking back and forth.
I remember the acrid fumes of paint from the rocking horse my father made for me.
shifting, thawing, ancient
that's what brings the rain down, that's what makes libraries feel like home.
I miss home. i miss the crackle of the fireplace, the rustle of the page,
the gentle clinking of your spoon against a mug.
you always made the best tea, i don't remember what you put in it.
I claw at my pockets for that picture of you, i come back with only dust.
I don't cry, because I forgot how, or perhaps I've been crying this whole time
it's hard to tell.