My poor dearest darling, I am sorry to inform you:

You don’t have to be beautiful to have stones thrown

at you.

I took a handful of earth from the ground

and the earth told me:

I have swallowed all of you since your genesis,

each death whether by burning, drowning or lingering

sinks back to me. Judgment

unimagined, I swallow

every creed of toxin:

the BPA, the HIV, the shame, the words and words unsaid

embrace back into me as blood, marrow or time

and I must say, I am getting old

for the first time in time unimaginable;

I wrenched old the day

I let birth to your kind.

I admit all my dead children:

the stars sink into me like seasons, the trees like friends,

but I must say, all lack the aftertaste

of your kind: your blood

is toxic, yes,

but flushes fast with music, cherries blooming

quick as a snake strikes and fading

as slow as the kneading together of skies.

And yes, your arteries are strangulation,

but the blood-rivers link locks of hair with onyx faeries I long to taste

their unsteps again caressing my ground

and in that endless moment

of human aftertaste, my dirt jerks to flame

with the hope and the throwing-away-of-voices, that you could ever

bear the fruit I imagined for you

when I let you born:

A fruit for which there is no word;

As yet, it remains unimagined.

My dear valiant darling, I am sorry to inform you:

There is no route sheltered from the pounding of rocks, and

Some of them will be emeralds.


Image credits in order of appearance:

By Luciana Barbosa, CC BY-SA 3.0,

“Bath of Diana” by François Clouet, ca 1559-1560. By Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0,


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