Born pickled
a bundle of brine,
spit out with the pigs,
stepped on, tossed aside,
buried under the muddy rugs—
the carpet chorus muffled,
rolled up and stained with the slap of hands,
wet dirt naming me sinner,
naming me fool,
while the silence screamed back.
Junk on my hands
but my fists stayed open—
bound wrists,
tight-rope veins walking the thin edge of despair,
slippery slopes greased by whispers,
shadows hoarding truths
behind my spine.
I dreamed of the bottom of the bag—
hiding in burlap shadows,
draped over my shoulder,
the sack of sorrow dragged uphill.
The sun was a dagger,
its glare split my skull,
its fire pushed me to the peak
where the earth yawned open.
And I fell.
Down through the dirt,
down to the roots
that never asked forgiveness,
that held the mud and called it life.
I planted my name there,
deep in the soil.
The weeds forgave me.
I sprouted new hands,
climbed the hill backward—
not to escape
but to meet the sunrise
and the bruised boy
I’d left behind.
I held his face in my palms.
I said, “We are here now.”
And he disappeared
into the light.
Leave a Reply