“Though it is ever dying, it is ever coming to life again.” – William Peter Blatty, The Exorcist
Myself remain buried in filth,
myself bleed like cut cows’ tongues
themselves with the big, dumb eyes staring. Yourself
knows what lives down the long, straight wire. We ourselves
the only ones who go that far back.
My reptilian, my
limerence & faith buried deep. Buried deep
in myself. Hurts to remember
how intermittent flurries of snow-fluff could veil
the dry rot dampness of the sagging fence. &
that lilac shirt eaten up with wrinkles.
Your monolithic, your glib & restless break through
earth. From the earth a flowering bed
of yourself.
Myself going to forget
the overgrowth of all irrelevant weeds. & of
that road coughing up dust at its ends.
Little white houses chunks of sugar cane. Yourself knows
the act of slicing & scattering them. Yourself fights your remembering.
Really, ours.
~~
Erin Weeks is a poet and journalist from Georgia with South Carolina roots. Her work has been published by Chicago Review of Books, Inkfish Magazine, The Imagist and Superpresent. A short collection of her poems, “Origins of My Love,” was published by Bottlecap Press in 2022.
