The Unborn

I wrap it in my arms
Cuddling, swaddling
Cherishing the child
I could never quite
carry

At times I relinquish
Watch it shrink and dwindle and
fade
to almost nothing

Then comes fear

Who am I
without it
What am I
beyond it

And so I feed it
again
and again
again
and again
again
and again

Until it grows
Until it swells
Until it covers
past hope

Suffocating the host
In the guise of
Protection

Armor over armor
Steel over steel
Impenetrable
Unyielding
Stultifying

Safe

 

 

The Spot

 

Dead
Blind
A zone without range
Empty
Void

We cross it each morning
Cursing and laughing
We wait
Calmly
Patiently
For life to 
Beat
    again

And it does
           Always
it does

But 
   there are 
            times
Other times

The underworld 
              Arises 
without warning

Signals disappear
Signs are misconstrued
Codes long broken become
Impenetrable

And we are 
          Lost

Until

From the left
A light
A faint
       Blue
Pulse

A dichrotic throb
As though 
         doubling
Might make the difference

And so it does
So 
  something
does

And the impasse
Dissolves
     Fades
         Passes
into memory

Becoming nothing 
                more 
than the shimmering penumbra
of a once
         intractable
Pain


©sdrogers 20 june 2015




 






Revisited

And you
For whom now
I
Do not even exist
Do you also
No longer recall
The flesh of my
Arm
Beneath your finger;
The scent of my
Neck
On your pillow
Each morning
What a shame to let
Go
All that must be let
Go
In order to forget only
Well, only,
           Just
               Me
Jejune we were
And are, perhaps,
As only one can
Be
In middle age,
The middle way,
Now
That all the other,
So many other
Paths
Have crossed
Too close
But I remember
If you do not
That you always
Lit my cigarettes
Fresh
From a match
Not a Bic, and
Never
No, never
From yours
I remember
Laughter
Lying laughter
Legs linked at the knees
Maddened
By the charm
So much charm
All the charm
Of one another
And are you
Now,
One of the unseen five
Hundred?  My own
Tiresias
Blindly watching,
Wordlessly wondering,
Waiting only to see if
You
Are the ancient love
Of which I speak
No
I think not
No
I think no
I have learned
Across the years
Across these years
Across these oh so
So many years,
I have learned
Just how
Forgettable 
           I 
             am
And just how
Dead
The forgotten
Truly are.

©sdrogers 13 june 2015

Chiaroscuro

The whirring purr of night
Falls thick across my chest
Pausing to lick with scratchy
Tongue the hot, salty trail from
Eye to ear.

He understands even less than
I this hard wind blowing
Cold from the East. So used have
We become to warm and loving
Breezes.

There is no love tonight.

This night belongs not to
Valentine but to Sebastian.

To twisted torsos and bloody
Arrows. To blackened eyes
Staring blindly, begging God
To release a shredded
Paper heart.

Gifts of the Revenant

No matter what
It is never enough

To lay in your lap
the tenderest suckling
its tiny bones a crack
in my mouth
despite all care
despite the gentle
pad
of tongue upon teeth

To lay at your feet
the hardest beast
dragging, heaving 
with the last of my
strength
a steaming kill

No matter what
It is never enough

I am 
still and always
the ghost

The white ghost 
with blazoned blue eyes, 
a grey shade 
slunk back, curled quiet 
in the shadows 
a silver specter
silently cleaning these 
ever-spotted,
ever-bloodied 
paws

Awaiting
the chin chuck
the head pat
the scratch 
behind the ears

Awaiting 
whatever Time
and 
   They
may allow

It is never enough
No matter what
Never enough


©sdrogers 28 december 2014



Ghost Stories

Pocketknife picking at the sideways
8. Though mine is not. So. So, the
blood pricks vertically, that is up
and down, running the length like 
tears from a hollow blue eye. Apollo never fails me. In his musical aspect at least. As the god of fortune, of prophecy. Not
so much. No, not so much at all. But in this, in this, this music. Yes, oh, yes, godlike, he is. For how could I have continued, one

rickety foot in front of the other, as it were, along the bone- spiked back of what was left of life, without this. This Music.
With these bobbles in the dark. Anything is possible. Dying in your arms. Yes, that, even that is possible.
The bodies of small men. Compact. Compartmentalized. Sharpened staves from the tips of my fingers slicing sinewy scars into their closely packed
flesh. Closely packed. Roomless flesh. So many of them marked. That way. Marked. One hidden blue track. And there is
nothing, nothing, nothing, no- thing to match, not ever, to match, the sad, swollen rolling legato of what we might have been.
Temple veins popping with gold. Treasure. Trappings. Snares. And we are undone forever. Forever. Always. For always. Undone.
So they tell me. Maybe one day. Maybe one day. We shall rise. In a howling, a howling, a howling, a screaming
murmuration we shall rise. Then, not even the bones of the ancients, not even the smoke of their prayers before dawn, will tether us to the
Earth. ©sdrogers 24 october 2014

Out of the Window

Out of the Window






















There are endings.
Then there are
              Endings.

Thirty days of silence
Fall from the window 
Of my throat in a 
Shroud of linen so soiled
Not even
         Blue
Can cleanse it.

Thirty years of silence
Stretch from the ledge
Of my heart in a 
Frozen sea so vast
Not even 
        Red
Can forge it.

I am come awake now, 
Awash in 
         Indigo
A black-eye bruise 
Where once there was
So much laughter.

It is the
         Ending
And soon all will be
The not quite white
                  Grey 
Of winter.


©sdrogers 14 october 2014