Poems from The Journey to Kailash VII
Mike Allen / Sunday, April 24th, 2011 / 1 Comment »
Petals
field of memories flickers, blooms brushed by charnel winds; desperate to preserve what searing gusts leave behind, I crawl amid the vein-dark stalks that sting my hands, my face; I crawl amid the nettled stalks to find the flowers, to eat: petals from my island childhood, papaya thick, at first breadfruit sweet but bright yellow inside, tinted with red ant fire, full of wriggling legs that struggle in my throat; petals from my mountain boyhood, tobacco tang, coal bitter, thorns hidden in the creases, blue as chill air, blue as bruises under skin of dust and mud; petals from the brink of manhood, white as paper and as dry; the salt of lust, phloem of love; visions burst on the tongue, blood-red hope, blood-red despair, flavor the same; petals from my middle age, blackened before I arrive: brittle ash, peeled paint, crust that crumbles as I pluck; who could want such tasteless dregs? I blow a kiss, scatter the petals, share them with the wind that sears my face.
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