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That day I divorced
my memories
was the day I
replaced my soul.

The fish that gasped
for light too long was
thrown back into its
pearly womb
and I breathed the sea
and became the sea,
where nothing speaks
in the cold and magic.

But the sound of you still
calls from the shore--
a siren calling me back
to the rocky past . . .

What sound is grief when
it cannot speak,
coiled in your chest like
a snake, asleep, but deadly
still, and where
does fury dwell when it
wears too much armor,
when you muzzle the mad dogs
of rage while those
who ran off with shards
of your heart flounce through
their blazing days never
looking back on the smoke
of your ruins?

Can rage find its way to God,
steam heaven till it
cracks open at last
or does it bleed
through the earth,
the root of insanity waiting
for the sacrificial spring?

How cruel is truth
when it is seen unfocused,
its beauty dimmed like trees
weeping in the mist,
when so much time flits by
in the mind's airtight cave
while the day's last light
speaks through drunken
leaves outside.

In other lives I drank
that gold,
before the birth of the
unworthy moon.

Where does pain sleep
when the words of dead
philosophers are just
so many scraps in the
dogs dish?

And where do I sleep
while that new soul circles
the bed?

An apology is a frail thread
that cuts between heaven
and hell;
Why can't you, with a word,
heal me, as you fed me,
clothed me, gave me gifts for
the price of my heart?

Black as intolerance
is the world
where you slumber.
I could have been your light,
if only it had blazed brighter
than our pride,
if the sound of my voice had
been louder than the one
shattering your heart.

Don't remember me in
your dreams.
You sleep your life
and I'll sleep mine.

by Patricia Joan Jones