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KINDLING Michael L Newell Riyadh |
It is winter. Memory splinters, sharp savage slivers more vivid than dreams which flood restless nights of one untethered from family, home, or direction. It is winter. The dangerous shiver of unfulfilled desire makes a mockery of every smile, every pretense of civility. It is winter. The bitter sight of deserted fireplaces that resist flame shames my eyes, my hands, my tongue, as I try to name all the places I have lived (and left), all the faces of women I have half-known and fled from in terror of my own longing, all the dwellings left naked by my refusal to leave the imprint of my hands. It is winter. Ice coats the mirror. My image blurs. I peer through bifocals searching for the face I have always known. It is there, but it sags and bulges. I would no longer claim it. It is truly winter when you straighten and glance around and find no one, no thing, that you have known or called your own, when the splinters in your mind are kinder than the light which fills your days. Michael L. Newell [Return to Psychopoetica home page] ©The contents of this page are copyright protected.
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