My eyes are the well that keep the water in the village,
My body is the wood that sings the wind with its shivers.
I need to prolong the night just this one time,
Will not get through this all for a while.
Witches and wizards roam in the dark, write my fortune with a knife,
Tear the fabric of the sky apart.
They leave before I start, witches and wizards and their telling arts.
Lidless night. Another lidless night.
Who are these people and why are they putting me to sleep?
Who are these people and why are they caring for me?
Where is my mom and where did everyone go?
Where is my husband and where is my home?
I knock every now and again, and a grin comes to the door.
I ask where my mom is,
And the mouth twitches,
Chokes by itself,
Calls me Ms
and speaks a tune I don’t heed,
A melody I’d edge with a pair of knuckles on its teeth.
I turn wood and leave.
Someone stole my people and my things,
I call it out and no one seems to think
It important to report this puzzle
To the police, or the authorities,
Instead they try a muzzle
On me, whose brain is tricky,
Whose brain left.
I hear what all of you have said.
But I know this brain longer than you,
When it wakes and when it rests,
And I know it better than you,
Don’t tell me what it says.
Doesn’t matter which Friday, your rusty hands will pull the old flowers off his bed.
His permanent bed, because rituals are important when mind leaves you slowly.
Brown hands sustained by veins only, pull the roots of a love that survives conscience.
Aphasia is God’s creation too, xylem flows out of you.
Even if most has vanished to nowhere in particular,
the part that was buried with him is the item of mortality which strings us together.
There’s no easy way to say ‘I love you’ to your ever evaporating grandmother.
I guess the only way is now rather than later, unless now is already later,
And in that case all you’re left with is a baby with too much personality
To accept any kind of love at any kind of party.
Aphasia is God’s creation tool, xylem flows inside of you.
Do not haste the prophetic words of your own hand,
For the fate you shall take is sacred and not swift.
Do not waste the prophetic elm of your own deeds,
For the taste it shall make is novel and not meek.
Grown shall be the hauberk you bear on the day you bid goodbye,
Farewell to all summers, come the harvest week.
Sweet shall be the fruit reaping from your trees,
For all summers you laid low, slavish under Sun’s seek.
And do not underestimate the stroll that took you where you’re from,
For all the time you’ve been preparing the joys of harvest week.