Last Gate

by Renwick Berchild

I know that I forgot to love you.
I know that I forgot to sew back on the sleeve.
I know that the arm that is now bare, and bears the marks,
forgot to extend, grasp, and lift he.

I am aware that I was born.
I am aware I am less than what was allotted to me.
I am aware that I caused great harm,
that I never granted explanation to she.

You know that titans crowd within this body.
You know that I was welcomed by an onslaught of cold.
You know how quickly the wild dog becomes me,
how fast the shadows come.

You know how from my slits the darkness eeks.
You know the crippled conscience I drag spurs me.
You know he that struck the shocked white hair inside me,
she who gave the neurosis, like a drug.

I will say that gods injected me.
I will say that all my masochism was logotherapy.
I will claim that I was meant to abandon he,
that I was destined to leave she behind.

I will again likely rise, and pass over glory.
I will again likely proceed to circle my own living.
I will again continue to run, to imagine the sea
as the ground for my bed burial, the waving sobs, eating.

The waving sobs, following, all through the very last gate.


6 Comments to “Last Gate”

  1. so beautiful, made of beautiful reveries.

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