Letting

Coarse motes
of
volcanic ash
swirl and stream

inside this
untamed atmós.

They nibble in
sharp, little stings
on the tender
pink membranes

at the joints of
my eyelids.

——

Eardrums burst
by
hot vapor, and

eyeballs abraded
by
violent
gusts,

I impel this
body move on,
in short, sure
steps.

——

My left heel
catches a slick—

screams out a rubber
squeak of
thick
liquid, trapped
between
sole and stone.

I have slipped
in blood—
my own blood.

It smells,
and I am stilled;

because

it is not the sickly
ferrous tinge of
the wounded and
dying—

it smells like
lavender
and honeysuckle—

a red-black,
arterial nectar
to ink my
footprints.

——

Blind, deaf, and
bathed in
uncommon fragrance—

one of haîma
and
spring blooms—

I stamp out my
path;

flung
forward,

certain of
nothing but
movement,

with teeth
and
bones bared.

——

If you,
too, lose
your way in
the shockwave

of
this bright
eruption,

just follow the
blood

and the
wet
scent of

fresh
flowers.

10 thoughts on “Letting”

    1. Thank you, Mark.

      Taste and smell are difficult to telegraph in detail (at least, for me). You’ll probably notice that I put weight on those two senses in much of my writing—seriously, try describing a taste or smell without using “like” or “as.” It’s a challenge I enjoy.

      I’m happy this popped out at you.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Ha, well, I think you’ve done well. I think you also like using liquids, or things that are gloopy, the more viscous the better, to accentuate your point… it works and it’s magic.

        Liked by 1 person

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