Looting The Tomb
Was it instinct or addiction
that led me back to this creekbed
to walk upon it’s mossy rocks?
What is this compulsion
to feel winter’s frigid whip
of wind crack against my cheek,
to camouflage my hands
with fragrant mud?
The blackthorn cane I bought in Dublin
dug up bones of an animal
that had forgotten it’s name and structure,
this Humpty Dumpty’s time-stained shellbits
laid there deconstructed and jumbled
among the acorns, twigs, and deadsoggy leaves.
I collected the remains
of the body’s collapsed frame
and put them in my jacket --
there was a feeling of weird power
when I stuck those fleshless bits
of death into my nervous pocket --
a scalpel blade of clarity sliced through
mind’s skin and I split-second glimpsed
into the open wound:
I learned that I’ve lived through each forever
and will never cease to be;
that nothing has ever died;
that death cannot destroy,
only rearrange the shapes --
it’s unbending metal hangers
to unlock the bedroom door.
copyright 2003 eric d. meyer