The Garden PoemIn the garden,The Garden Poem by Veo33
she would sit for hours combing her hair
praying that spring would bloom again inside her.
The weight of winter
compressing her bones into sedimentary rock.
She could make a home for herself there beneath the Daffodils
and use snail shells to frame the doors and windows
of her house made of broken clay and glass.
When it rained, she would lose her ankles in the mud
and confess she could feel the Earth's heartbeat with toes wiggling.
she would close her eyes and hum, tangling
her fingers with tree roots. By morning, she would be covered
with dead leaves and the cocoons of caterpillars
who grew tired of their homes.
So they changed their shape and moved to a safer place
to raise their children.
After years of growing out her hair,
and trading secret with Evergreens,
she felt the soil had finally betrayed her.
Promising a Summer filled with young l
antiquesShe knew that moving too soonantiques by Veo33
would stir the rheumatism in his bones.
So she stayed in the same place
for two hours, listening
to his laborious breaths
rearranging the dust flecks
left on his lips from their kissless evenings.
He woke, coughing and crumbling.
She thought the effort would finally take him.
His eyes glazed by fading faces and promises made as a child.
He used to sing to her every morning.
Today, he strained to recognize her hands helping him out of bed.
For three days, he had called her Margret.
At the table, she answers the same questions
as the day before, and the day before, and every week before that.
Briefly, she considers replacing her name with a song bird or a Pop Idol,
but cannot bring herself to lie, knowing
how soon she may be forgotten.
Every evening she strokes his face
and whispers her wedding vows
as if they were a secret.
ImpossibleI dream of a womanImpossible by Veo33
with a stag's head.
Her wrist chained to her antlers.
She parts her lips to speak
but only whimpers
Our Home and Our HeartsI'm carrying fistfuls of dust andOur Home and Our Hearts by dconfessional
our old age in my pulse. I want to
shake them in your face like a threat
and then kneel at the edge of our bed
and pretend that you've mended all of me.
I am gathering my footsteps
in the rooms we use together,
noticing rust and revisions
so we could have something to move on to.
I find you sinking in the sofa
wondering what is guiding you through REM sleep.
I see the outline of your insides
and that you cut your hair before your eyes closed.
Suddenly I'm wondering where I've come from and why I haven't
landed in that empty space between your slumber
and the spine of the couch.
A dead girl walking.
To die without leaving a corpse.
Current Residence: no where, now.
MP3 player of choice: cocksmoker.
Skin of choice: the kind that doesn't perpetually shiver.