All I need is a ukulele to serenade you out of my heart

The shadow of my hand
across this page
clashes with you.
I write these words:

You are crouched,
emergency blanketed,
having lost your belief in
spring long ago.

Nothing is so complicated
you can't let it
leak from your pores,
or risk living face up,
face out
in the middle of all the
wrath and reconstruction.

You dump out your milk with
your pills
down the same anonymous
chute.

I want to clean your face,
watch it change,
but then there would be no chance
for me.

You stopped production,
ran out of wishes.
You can only remember the number
Zero.

You forgot about your cells.
They all sit dormant,
reciting the same lines.

The cemetery tells you:
“Go away.
There’s a holy city
just down the street;
shrines and comrades
for you to soak in.

There is no myth except death.
Including and communing are
necessities.”

You are not cut, but
slowly severing,
and the thinnest string
can tie you back.

Please don’t behead your own
flowers.

You have plain-looking
lovers on the other side.

We are not experts in belief,
or advisors on how to build shrines,
but we do have wishes for you.

They are in the melodies
of a broken ukulele.


This is an old poem. Just thought I'd put it up because I'm too busy to write at the moment. I was doing a little editing instead. Will be back around after papers are graded (hopefully by the end of the week!)