Monday, June 27, 2011

How Soft This Prison Is

Body, bundle, country of twigs. Your nine gates opening, closing, spittle wet. A miracle you existed at all. Fontanel, fallible. Your soul shaking inside. When you died, Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees. I watched them go like little mouths, dried and paper-flat, without music. Ticker tape in shades of blood-orange, rust. And the wind did gently lay you down. I waited. I watched.

-Hadara Bar-Nadav