For Egypt

from 11.27.17

Regularity
Is a venomous anesthetic
The world leaks into our souls.
It floods the chambers of our hearts And coils itself around our nerves, Squeezing each stem till it wilts, Surrendering the power to feel—

We are numb.

Namelessness
Is an unquenchable sponge
The world drags through our souls.
It absorbs the hidden lakes of responsiveness And drains the seas of sorrow, Drinking in every liquid molecule till the eyes burn in their sockets, Surrendering the power to cry—

We are dry.

Forgetfulness
Is a ravenous fire
The world kindles in our souls.
It spreads throughout the forest of our veins And rips away the layers of our hearts like ash, Evaporating every drop of blood till we are empty, Surrendering the power to bruise—

We are a wasteland.

Once, three hundred Egyptian deaths would have carved me open like three hundred sharpened daggers. Now they fall like three hundred raindrops, stinging for an instant and then disappearing into the earth, unremembered amidst the downpour.

Sacrifice
Is an ache we choose in our souls.
It burns in our chest like air leaving our lungs And it pounds in our flesh like nails driven through our hands, Throbbing under our skin till we scream in pain, Restoring the power to hurt—

You are felt.

Knowing
Is an ocean we sail in our souls.
It swells in the cavities of consciousness And thunders in our ears like a violent storm, Crashing against the walls of our eyes till they break, Restoring the power to weep—

You are mourned.

Remembrance
Is a garden we plant in our souls.
Its roots wind throughout our frame And cradle our returning hearts, Pumping fresh liquid through our hollowed shell till we pulse with life, Restoring our power to bleed—

You are treasured.