Friday, June 14, 2019

Where Does the Wild Live?

Where does the Wild live, I asked
the concrete: a visage of grief,
broken and scarred.
In my heart, she said,
in the rock and limestone,
crushed and emptied
beneath your feet. Listen deep
to your footsteps; the rhythm
of loss.

I asked the glass, so naked,
so transparent, I looked away
for what I saw. In my bones, she murmured, 
my bones of sand. I remember 
the sea, the salt and how the westerlies blew.
I saw the world
in who I was.

I asked the plywood, the cross
and the table where food is served
and nails are driven. In my veins,
she said, where blood ran free, now
imprisoned in a pattern:
the sacred 

I asked the electricity that runs
through my life from laptops to videos,
microwaves to fans. Look 
to the rivers, she said, where music is born,
then listen to my hum:
the detritus of song.

And plastic, I asked,
where does the Wild live? 
In the deepest of genes, said a voice
like my own, remains of the ancestors
deposits of folly. I am
the shadow, the darkness 
that lies in your heart.
Do not try to control me—
you cannot.

Where does the Wild live, I asked the stars,
so far away, untouched
by me. In your soul, they said, 
go to your soul. But I knew
my soul
was nowhere
to be found.

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