Fossil bone, a maiden’s cliff
throwing ghosts in the stalactites
there, my ocean is there, and I will die with the thorn in my side;
abyssal shadows are empty, sandstone splits at my cheek,
look at the full-bodied ocean, their fish bones below
the memorial, from so close, I can stand upon the ocean’s bosom,
her white waves upon my fingers
O’ death can make them primitive to infancy—
caving inside the womb, the knot which spreads
across my chest, the umbilicus of our ghosts
like desert sands into the undressing throat
in the frost; if you undress me, this dance has nothing left
the needing none more than a folly from nature,
it dispels its whispers to the mocking bird
bleeding at its neck, which oft turned away
from lips beneath the congeries
avoiding the sea in spindrift edge,
as half-forgotten stones link to the caitiff of hibernations,
we need no more to say as we fall to the black thorns
for other worlds will be our last cankered dark
I will die in the abyssal
Before you, the ocean rises; I sought the tides.
© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a poem using the word folly in it.
As you can see, I’m quite the romantic.