Seven steps
Down the stone and winding
stair. Only seven.
Push me there.
Let me fall among dead leaves
crushed sandy dirt, rough granite in
a slow-motion fall, close-ups:
ants crawl in a line up my neck
into my once fair hair
a leftover red mitten forgotten
the empty green ballet slipper
the scratches up my legs and arms
road-rash, the dragged signs of reluctance
of accident, of prescience.
I lie still at the bottom, a deep well,
Shivering. The two beasts lie
waiting for me to gather strength,
to bypass their ugly warning. But I am weak
and have nothing left.
Someone must come to save me.
Zeus or his minions perhaps. I do not care who.
Hang me on a hook, a corpse, I whisper
to those long lost loves, those ugly beasts,
Let them come and find me here.
I do not care.
I offer no substitute. This time
You must take me.
|
|
|
|
recommend this
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 21
Blessings and best wishes - S.
Perhaps you need a Teddy bear!
It is intense, John. The underworld...
Again, thanks to both of you.
Though this character has been through Hell, and holds dearly to the wisps of memory: the mitten, the slipper, sustained injuries, by the bottom of the well this becomes a fine resolve, not resignation but an active engagement of entering the void.
You did a fine job of taking this reader through decrescent.
A sublimation.
Fine crafting Kelly,
Ade
The warrior woman narrator says, "I gotta go down there? Well, then - let's do this." (Maybe even another poem here...)
You have traveled to the deepest part of your psyche. I agree with what others have said-- there's much strength in the narrator's acceptance of death.