There is a weight on my chest sinking me further down into an explosion of rubble or a spiral of stairs leading me down into a dark room or a chest of treasures filled with porcelain dolls— and maybe I see hope at the bottom? Or is it a pair of butterfly wings, clipped from the branches of a ripening peach tree? But this fruit isn't native to where I grew up, so I'm not as familiar with the taste of it as I am with salt pressed against my wounds, or antiseptic sprayed on my tongue. But I think that god has picked a fruit from that tree. He cries like a weeping lightning strike. He asks me for forgiveness. What can I do with this unfamiliar pair of mourning doves placed on my palm? Whispering like the wind that it's okay. I don't know this orchard. I am not its farmer. I cannot anoint the seeds of this field.
i listening to this song while writing this. SO TRAUMATISING but so good…
The poems really good and I love Sarah kinsley omd
Beautiful work!