First, unbutton the sky.
Let the light spill from you
a tide of gold.
Shed your name like a moth’s old wing,
a dry, silky thing that means nothing.
Find the sea, though it be a memory of the sea,
and wash away your form.
Become fluid. Un-remember the shape of your mother’s face,
the call of your father’s voice.
They restrict your movement.
Your body is a cage of brittle bones.
So, turn your bones to mill.
Let the wind carry them to a place that has forgotten your face,
the sound of your laughter, the way you stumble over certain words.
Let your eyes become two dark, bottomless wells.
Look into them until you see nothing,
until you are a darkness looking into darkness.
Finally, write a new geography with your blood.
A country with no borders, and no destinations.
You are a compass needle spinning,
always pointing to nowhere.
And when the seekers come, they will find only the salt of the sea,
the hollow shell of a name,
and the ghost of a map they cannot read.
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Tim is an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. He writes about rural life, family, and the places he grew up around. His poetry and essays have appeared in Bloodroot and Coal Dust, his latest book.
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Comments (1)
So many lines that stand out, this has a feel of pirates making a deal with the devil. I think this is one of my favourites from you.