Poetry

nothing left.

will I drown? the wind twists, and we kiss the flowers; seize the backbone of the root, where our blood is ours. the tree trunk can’t see death;

unparalleled, my father disintegrates. the sunsets are claret as they burst. the glass region, eyed by the ants, flourishes in the light by remembering; eyes, pressing to abandoned wounds in the blood-flow of my poems; i have nothing left to say to you,

like the foreign moon with her breasts,

sunken to asylum

the ashes of Cimmerian tombs, dispatched to the same darkness we see. there is an absence of the black violets, where only dreams are the entryway to my subconscious; self-portraits of my mind. 

the moon bled 

and death retraces memories

this person they no longer know; the woman who is myself. poking like the worm, 

“in their dreams
they sleep with the moon.”

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.


Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line, “In their dreams
they sleep with the moon.”–From Mary Oliver, “Death at Wind River”.


46 replies »

  1. Love this especially; “there is an absence of the black violets, where only dreams are the entryway to my subconscious; self-portraits of my mind.” Your use of imagery never ceases to amaze me! 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I enjoyed the darkness of this piece, Lucy, the personification of a flower with a backbone of root and a tree trunk that can’t see death, the zoomorphism of a woman poking like a worm, the claret sunrises, and the phrase ‘abandoned wounds in the blood-flow of my poems’. And I want to know why there is an ‘absence of the black violets’ – what happened to them?

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you so much, Kim. I’m ecstatic you enjoyed the imagery in this piece. Now, as for that line, I do not particularly remember what I had in mind for it. The essence of the poem is about change and not recognizing yourself for the better, while all the same, you can find things or people that try to reflect the person you once were. It is there that one realizes that they are different and no longer the same.

      The absence of black violets can be just that. Something evolved within the subject of the poem. They’ve left those violets behind, and those flowers turned black; wilted, dying. That part of the individual is dead and left to the past. But, it is for the better.

      Thank you again for your lovely comment and feedback. It’s much appreciated. ❤ ❤

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I love the description of your demise…. first of us viewing you …. eyes, pressing to abandoned wounds in the blood-flow of my poems…
    and then… to the fact that you never leave us…. the woman who is myself. poking like the worm,

    in their (our) dreams
    they sleep with the moon.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Very dark and blood-filled. Speaks to me of death, loss and isolation. Is the glass region you speak of in France, along with the claret? Just wondered.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s