Separating skin from a tree
is a faint task, like
twisting glass back to sand.

Long, narrow veins exposed to chaos,
leave their limbs. I climb inside
them for hydration.

I’m a fish, shallow in water,
borrowing lungs from
a human.

Don’t make it glacial,
blue is the true color.
It is royal.
It is blood.
I am oxygen and it feels good!

My husband left me sweltering
during the ripe moon. I grew
ripe, too; a full cherry
hunger in a bottle
of Gin.

Then this tree, he’s latched on
to me. I pour my fingernails
in. He knows his strength
matches me tightly.
We seize together on Earth’s early
tremor, and just as I start to peel,
layer by layer,

his exposed veins melt into
venom, he turns me,
my swift hourglass
resets, twisting sand
back into glass.

8 thoughts on “Hourglass

  1. Beautiful and potent words. Worlds of wordless imagery and new colour cascade through my hueless descent as I smother in each line, each delicately chosen symbol, each archetypal sign-post. Stunning work. Superb blog.

  2. Maggie Mae… I really love the direction you’ve taken with your recent work; you still have the ability to make it so powerful a metaphor, it’s almost too painful to read… The imagery you now use is as strong as previously, but, more subtle, insidiously creating stark knowledge in a single line…

    Whew! Nicely done…

    gigoid, the dubious


    • I know that it is different. Yet I hope still the same in subtle ways. I am trying to reach a clarity, at the same time, mysteriously and magical. ā¤ Thank you friend.

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