Tuesday, January 10, 2017

new vintage

I have shed you like old wineskins,
cut you from my heart like
an infant's fresh foreskins--
a clean cut,
severing your polluted
toxins from my body's blood.

Suddenly (it feels so sudden),
a switch is flipped,
you have slipped into old tall tales,
no longer The Story:
you are not the key,
but just another lock,
on another bridge,
which will be clipped,
sinking into the Seine.

Freedom feels ill-fitting,
too loose and baggy,
I can barely believe how
spacious,
open, and receiving
a heart can feel once
your boulder moves--
we find the tomb is empty,
room for all the world in there.

Before, you were that boulder,
plugging up the open spaces.
I lift you, Sisyphean,
find you are nothing,
but a pebble,
Easy to flick away, lightly.

New wineskins for newer vintage,
fresh foreskins for sweeter lover,
switch illuminating
dark boulder as light pebble,
strange transformations
healing wrought.

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