Choke, cherry-brimmed boy, mouth stained carmine, an Equinox between us.
I unbutton my shirt slow. I
stir pine sap into my voice, make it murmur low.
I know thunder, I’ve swam currents, blood garnets, a cell replicating and decaying, that microcosmic Reincarnate.
Tell me, when my periphery is peppered silver, when time’s tally marks have made my body a stooped spine scar, Will you track the sun over the stone of this form?
Will you plant raspberry seeds in the palms of my cold hands?
Will you draw winter in my ashes and scatter me where snow will not fall?
Call it a private solstice, call it an outcome of our eccentric orbit, call it an Analemma.
What happens after rigor mortis, it is not Silent.
I am still there, tracking the horizon, this time with my eyes shut.
Image Credits: Giuseppi Donatello via Wikimedia Commons