by LILLI WARD
Outside: a crumbling hive.
Inside: the air like shredded silk.
An argent blouse of smog is torn by the red finger of a stalagmite.
(soupy)
A humid dew that curls my hair, relieved of my senses, I crawl.
Drenched, calescent, silent,
And then I feel the birth of language, with no one to talk to, I learn to speak.
“Irony with its plasmatic film”
I let my voice fill the cave, coating every inch, until I am quite sure it could crack. Then again, all at once the words deflate,
Fall, left writhing in the dirt, in amongst the cathedrals of limestone, between the moon milk covered limbs, this is my empire of dust.
I’m crawling still, pink knees and palms skinned by red gravel, weaving through rocky arms.
With every inch, introducing my hands to the tiny roads I am creating.
I sputter like an old engine, spitting up what my now raw skin swallows,
It travels through me, forging paths and finding its exits, just as I am.
Scratching, scraping the cavity, crumbling the flowstones,
I’m pink, raw all over and I come to see that there is more to know here in this dim grotto, than outside the buzzy hive.
So I’ll stay, tuck myself in with blankets of deadwood and dust.