Herd

by Christos Polydorou

Give to my heart, words, a mouth, so that,
when I whisper to my heart, lovingly,
it might respond, kissing each word,
that it loves me too. It is a humble voice,
the voice of my heart, though it is a child,

it has an old man’s voice, with the winds
in it, which plays my ribs like xylophone
keys, and tells me it loves me, too, as I
attempt to meditate, something I have
not done so many times in my life. However

this time what haunted me haunted me only
vaguely, not even obliquely, a type of guilt,
sounding through the walls, alerting me of
its presence, requiring attention, needing
worship, needing time, requesting frustration.

agitation, another nation of me to come to the
forefront of who I am in a given moment and
what I am saying and the love and care I am
giving to these two children in this shard
of glass we are all citizens in, the children,

myself, a woman singing in the distance,
and,
of course,
the elephants,
the herd of elephants,
running away and

shattering
the glass
before
we
got a chance

to
even
open
our
mouths.

I cannot live
two lives,
I am afraid.
I can only
recall one.

 

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