What We Are

by Renwick Berchild

We are heads clacking together,
Stiff blades that clash and shatter we are
Flint and rock into fire,
We are two wolves left howling at the moon.

We are a rising of a wave
And the shatter,
We move with the seasons and with
The whales,
We are thighs arching, napes cracking,
We are bones that have yet to die.

What we are is nothing that matters,
Bad poems and harsh truths and
Bitter marks left behind by long gone batterers.
We are what remains of the
Dark, little pockets of blackness we are
Slowly being pushed out and buried.

We are a memory,
An onyx stone gulped by shadow,
An art form being swallowed,
The tidal air missing we are a heavy
Pulsing of yearned kissing,
Never attained but lingering like dust.

What I am is a ship,
Lost and drifting alone around you,
Twisting with the turning of the world
Without the silence, I am a commotion of empty.

What I am is a raven,
Set off to find land that was destined for a dove,
Not knowing my own body I
Vanish into a horizon of
Ash and rock.

What holdings
Have we, what makeshift pyres of god and
Lonely roaming, what
Lands of plenty that make me flee
Why did you plunge
Where I could not follow you? As though you tempt
The fish,
To leave the sea.

What we are,
Is sisters, brothers, mothers forgotten by fathers we
Are a shroud,
Over the corpse, over the table,
The veil that hides eyes,
The night spearing through and breaking light.

What we are, isn’t, I do not think.
What we are is a defiance towards the mighty.
What we are is the lithograph, not the portrait, nor pen.

Not the creation,
Not the creator.
No, we are the thing that makes it then.

What we are is the soul, never there, yet, not just starting out.

What we are is not the echo,
The sound, the will, the open mouth;
What we are is the shout and

I am chorus of iron rage. You, a pillow shredded,
Organs exposed, an identity woven and bane.

Sweet rushing in the push, swell that
Catches in the knot tied rampant by the
Welling, the churn; what we are
Is an oath, speaking clearly and learnt:

I will not save you. I will do no harm.

This bed is made. We lie in it.
It is our hell. Our cage.

What we are is dumb innocence ravaged by love.

First published on larkspurhorne.net December 9, 2015 

6 Comments to “What We Are”

  1. Loved the topic and the journey you took us on! Loved the line “What we are is nothing that matters,
    Bad poems and harsh truths”

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