This song is everything I gave up and burned in a kiln. This song melted the ceramic vase I sculpted back into a clay puddle. This song is the dripping wet of my beige fingers. It is the liquid I gave away and said, “make me solid again.”
This song weighs what I weigh, the same as a lily pad weighs on water. This song is the splash of me missing the lily pad, a terrible ballerina in a frog tutu. You, though, are a bird, perched sparrow on a thin branch fleeing from winter, the same branch on which you landed last winter, and the one before, and the one before that, toward a song. This is your song. Again. You migrate just as you’ve been instructed by your bone-knowing, the only thing you know, primitive and instinct. Your footprints are tridents. Your eyes are black beads shifting, abacus-counting the miles before you land again where you’ve landed before.
In this song, I sink, dumbfounded, in unbreathable water somewhere deep and cold where I take mermaid advice. I grow my hair from head to waist, and dye it seaweed color, and have no sense of direction. No north, no south, no winter. My hands age. The rest of me stays the same. My fingers reach past my skin. My skin is clay. My bones are a compass without a magnetic field. They stretch in every direction unable to quite reach science or to adequately fold in prayer, and so they lock together, like evolution, an amphibian myth: air’s swallowed desire, water’s gasping wish.
posted by holly.