(I) Seven days before the tempest
And this water, this water can drown
Me. And anything below. Below.
Hell has seen this ocean before the fire was snuffed out.
Seven days and walls are rattling.
Seven days and this tempest is as thick as the mud that binds my skin.
And I am sodden and asleep on this carpet.
(II) I dream of you
You dream not of me, not for me.
Dreaming of water, wishing that it would spill
In through glass windows, six days before the tempest.
Spilling over the edge of my lips when
I am parched. Not for these things that make me human
But for this chaos, this lighting of the pyre
(III) And smoke
Runs into your eyes, five days before the tempest,
You turn your face to me.
Oh, deluge. Water on the brain.
And I have been known to fall
In love, oh, I love the sound of another heartbeat.
I love, love, virulent, waterlogged eyes.
(IV) I am a garden,
Four days and this tempest is feeding me
Four days and my ribs are a hothouse, bursting.
Dead mouthfuls of roses; Blood and bloom essential.
Now, I am drunk and wilting.
Now, I am feasting on
Stringent torrents. These gauzy hands of water shake me until I am awake.
(V) Mad is a river that surges and whelms
And mad are you if you dive in
Three days and this tempest is filling you
Three days, you are burgeoning,
Brimming, quaking, moonstruck.
I slip into your palm—the firefish.
Douse me. Quench me. Smother me.
(VI) If all this rain were snow,
I would be greedy and hungry for warmth,
But my skin would not gather and tear.
My bones, not porous, full of poltergeist.
My lips, mouth, my tongue, all blue and bloated.
I would not be a sugar pill dissolving in water.
I would not be two days before the tempest, a placebo, God's cure, and gone.
(VII) One day before the tempest,
And this weight, this water is enough to suffocate
Me. And anything. Everything. I am
A tempest, peddling and peddling through air. I am
The weight. The water. Watching it, wanting it
To suffocate me. To light me aflame
One end of me a boiled wax body, the other a wick.
YOU ARE READING
Blood and BloomPoetry
Blood and Bloom. Wilt and Overgrowth. Death and Life. Following are six Romantic Modernist poems about vulnerability, mental illness, and the dilemma of growth and when to stop. "I am a garden Four days and this tempest is feeding me Four days and m...