“Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy.”
Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree
You will go to the land of Oblivion to remember. You will bring in the hands the faithful document of your calligram and the children's bread, as always, under the arm. You will turn to see, and there will not be a column of salt that will martyrize you the rest of the way. Your map is the snow, but, it is in the forest's fire that the Silverstein's tree awaits you, on its stump, sit down, your feet burn, your heart goes out through your mouth. Do not be afraid to take it out and lull it like a meek bird that trembles wounded. These things are and were written, but not as you will imagine the journey to the center of the seed. Go with peace, the root of your flesh and my flesh is hollow. Sometimes you will see orchids grow from their venom, but don't be afraid to take them to your chest and rub them as a symbol of your purity, they are helpless, they wither. Don't believe me a single word, shut me up with your back and follow the voice of the river peeking in the distance. Upon arrival, observe the water twitter, and the water birds that simulate fish but that nobody has seen and you will doubt. Perhaps it is an illusion, a deadly rant that collapses to mourn over the grave of heaven. A cold, cold in the neck, which strangles in the brain stem, and yes, produces a fine rain that transcends ghostly pain, and there, incline to its throbbing. Don't leave, the night waits intermittently, it loves you, it needs you in its orbit because you know its tunnels and without wings you fly. But it is not all. The absolute flash of a star at death is that; a poem that opens in solitude, in loneliness, and then, who reads?
Copyright © Roxane Aristy | Year Posted 2019