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Mort and Donna
Mort and Donna

 

Dawn: Donna Asleep

Over your eyes, your cheeks,
light bounds
like a beast in a lantern
tiger stripes through the blinds.
Like water exhaling,
your features widen.
The sun,
emerging on the horizon,
is the heart's first resonance
at the edge of being.
Pebbles tremble,
trees shake.
Stones jostle
in an ancient hut
above a Balkan valley
where all that disappear
beneath the earth—
thigh bones, combs,
winecups and wedding rings—
lie hidden, still.

A cat sleeps
in your nude turning,
in the drag of your arm.
Each dawn,
this battered planet
repairs itself
in the only way it can—
burying fists
and rusty knives.
Reborn we lose the shadow
of who we were,
But at a moment such as this,
when you lie so placid
in a pool of sleep,
surely the sunlight,
spearing into a corner,
glints on what must be
the lost key
that will unlock the stairway
into the earth
where all the bones
that have disappeared
will climb once more
into the light.


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  Photo by Jana Marcus   Floodlight Feature by phren-Z