Where I live, every December,
swarming flies dive and mill.
For a thousand years the soul remembers
the thrumming wing –
descends, dismembers
chunks of flesh lapped in laughing embers,
and I can’t see past the hill.
Flickering swamp, where I was born,
the metallic hospital at the rim –
of my mind. All these years I mourn
white coats, stethoscope sworn
to the gurney, everyday worn,
and I can’t see past the hill.
Gurgling lake above my head –
old legend that dangles still.
Whipping pigeon wing, turned to lead,
shields city from the sewer dread.
Or, at least, it tries. The small gods said
that I can’t see past the hill.
They pickle their dirty hearts in brine.
All that salt is bound to kill
tears off my salty sclera. Don’t shine,
lovely stars, I don’t mind.
There’s not too much beauty I can find.
And, still –
I can’t see past the hill.