Canopy Collapse


    Canopy Collapse

As a kid I wanted to see the stars better.
I wanted to hold their radiant
Warmth in the center of my eyes
Til I drift off to sleep.
I wanted to lie down beneath them
And press my mind to the task of
Grasping the magnitude of this place.

So I learned how to climb to the
canopies tiptops. Now that I secured
A good view I needed away to stay up here.

So I learned how to fashion and tie ropes.
Spin, wrap, knot, I began to weave a web
of ropes. They were material ropes,
as much as figurative ropes.

Interwoven with ropes were hopes that
This is what obtaining the good life looked
like.
A mighty force of friends and family
In my proverbial corner,
A pursuit of a promising career,
A loyal, long-term lover to hold, to
be held by, to share, to delight in.

Spin, wrap, knot, my woven web
atop these tree tops was becoming
done.

I lay back with you to hold this dream
of stargazing til night’s end, til our
bodies tired and gave in to sleep’s
soft, sweet song. This, this was it!

I awoke in the middle of the night
Airborne. The rope canopy fell through,
I’m in free fall. In instinct, I hold fast
to the trunk of a tree.
My palms and soles
catching my weight
Find traction after
wearing down to a
red pulp.


I dismount from the tree.
Take stock of the scene.
The ropes strewn in piles,
Love, you are gone.
I lay down at the base of the trees.
The stars still shimmering,
I could almost convince myself
It was some dream of fever or fervor,
if not for the broken ropes,
the tender, bloody palms and soles,
Or the oceans welling in my eyes
Of the collapse under the guise of night.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

It Was Never Just Falling Out of Love

It Was Never Just Falling Out of Love You say you fell out of love— like the glass had cracked, spilling out the meaning of dreams, the sting of shared growing pains, hopes of home, the gilded laughter curled around our cats, our joy stretched across oceans and train rides. Like love just… poured from that once-hallowed glass, and now the nectar pools, forgotten, drying where no one kneels to gather it. But we were almost a decade in. You don’t lose that kind of time without feeling the unseen quakes— jarring bones, jarring memories. After you slept in someone else’s arms, my body forgot how to seek yours, and yours forgot how to reach. We slept on different floors, in different worlds, each night drifting out to sea, no one left steering us home. And I felt it— the shift, that slow retreat dressed in quiet like it was mercy. The new rhythms we rehearsed in silence: rising alone, still wondering if you'd notice the empty side of the b...
Read more

Upon a Quiet Night

    Upon A Quiet Night It’s surreal, this walking upon the earth—jockeying and wrestling with yourself to stake deliberateness, to claim intention, to become something you yearned for, something that once bore fire in your heart. From quiet self-revolution in spaces outgrown, to traversing avenues physical and liminal previously unknown. It is eerie to sit down upon a quiet night and host the ghosts of traveling souls here no more. To hold the voices and personalities of those once loved and tenderly cared for, now revolving in space somewhere else—off in a distant place without a trace, or crossed over to the world beyond. The residue of loves discovered, or connections tempered, never quite fades. Upon a quiet night, if still enough, the atoms in space hoist their charge—their beauty bursts in magnificent ways. The myriad versions of self that became present and possessed your body become strange—variably close in memory. Some farther, some closer. Some buried, some ha...
Read more

Lightning Tatters, Mirrors Shatter

 It’s comical the slowness with which a face changes. I caught glimpse of myself a couple months ago.   Pale, brooding, spiraling—   I spent more time in the sun than was optimal.   It’s comical, those subtle changes.   A lifetime ago, the mirror would smile—   warm, happy, the feeling   reverberating from glass to lips.   It’s comical,   this mirror holds all,   this mirror holds nothing.   I strike me, the mirror.   It’s comical how it sees—   now more complete.   Cracks crinkle, cracks crinkle into different cracks.   The opulent hue of bliss   that lights a smile—   the deep cold tremor   that lurks below a long look.   The rich vein of love ran dry,   idles in still eyes.   My face, at once a still meadow,   weathers the emotive seasons.   Ebb and flow ...
Read more