In the cessation of sound, amidst solar flares and encapsulating humidity, I still —I seek, closing off for vulnerability, my bindings loosen, raw edges allow escape, my feral soul and foul heart —the steeple crucifies the sky, the only pains I see through, stained glass geometry in mortal red, the weathered stone facade, cold in shallow —my memories a dagger clasped in hand, a path of union winds beneath shade trees, a canopy of complications —a threshold of innocence or interrogation? So much hate and love for the weeping willow, the gallivanting widow —I’m overfull with swallowed screams, I’m overcrowded with threads that knot maps, nothing resonates in this earthly scene, time keeps close watch, it’s face a resounding no —I bow my head to stitch my flesh anew, to keep myself in, to keep all others out…the grass in tall routine waves, stutters and leans in polar opposite, breaching for a portent of ebon feathers, his presence simultaneously a memory and new, he studies the church with an intent and purpose in kind, shattering the silence with screams, shrill and growing in intensity, cast at the facade, the foundation, the framing —exhausted, I’ve finally made room to exhale

E. A. O'Connell. June 30, 2021.