I am the empty, meandering lake,
carved and scooped out
by the edges of your finger nails.
I am the echo from the top
of a mountain. Your icicles drop and
slice through the centre of my heart.
The stampede charge beside my river,
buffalo stomp, panic, kick up veld;
The cracks grow, longer, thicker, deeper.
I am the high and low tide;
I surge forward – spit and churn, but then
I withdraw, shut up, drag my words away.
Beneath the floor of my sparse, dry-mouth
desert, there is an infestation of worms and
cockroaches, struggling to get out through the cracks,
but you don’t want to hear them.
Instead, you stamp across my valley,
dropping snakes into my pits
and laugh as they writhe around,
making me sick. With a stick, you stab,
try to penetrate beneath the surface, dredging
up memories best left undisturbed.
You forget that my banks are already ruined;
pebbles and rocks broken into pieces like a mosaic.
My soft peaks of sand are full of urine.
Fish that aren’t even dead have been
picked apart to the bone.
My land erodes beneath your feet and
sharp tongue. My haven has been sheared
in half, and now, I am done.
Copyright: Laura Davis © 2017, all rights reserved.
DISCLAIMER: The image does not belong to me and can be found here.