That’s all

by A. Marie

Two legs, that are columns, your roof of bone, blood, sinew,
housing your pantheon, your gods that were born from burnt meals,
falls off your bicycle, windows you leapt from, drainpipes
slid down, hearts your broke with unkind words, papers you tore
and launched off bridges you walked
in the night.

Two legs, that have waded through death and the like,
brushed against biting rock, shivered under a lover’s touch, wept
with knees knelt in wet grass, bruised by time, veined roads not taken.

That is the story: of two feet stepping, one in front of the other.
Spirits that tangled in the hair, elementals drank
and left to bloom in organs, hiding under cells and clothes,
harbingers laid over shoulders, dreams that seized the ancient knells
and awoke to omens,
ghosts curled in our coffee mugs, awaiting lips.

Desks, beds, countertops, the birch tree in the backyard are the altars;
you take hot showers, hoping to squeeze a god through a pore.

Two hands, you lift them, hold them to the mirror glass, glossy
with sweat you extend your pointer finger, and divine,
lace a shape into the empty air, arc the chin and dome of your father,
mound the brows and cheeks of your mother, blow the ember,
light up the memory, and head out to work.
That’s all there is to the day.


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