In the wee early mornings
on the hottest nights
of that summer that never ended
when everyone on the farm
was fast asleep
the oldest daughter
with her wide blue eyes
and long black hair
would take off every stitch of her clothing
and steal away into the darkness
to a hidden grove
where her secret love awaited;
an amorphous stump
a short twisted form
with thick gnarled roots
and a tiny green eye;
she’d crouch down
and hug that little troll
tenderly
then leaning in
and putting her left ear near
she’d listen to the murmurs,
jumping rope without ropes
playing soccer without goals
praise that falls from lips
as easy as spittle and spit
you let me be
as I fell deeper
down into myself
a thousand voices
and none that cared
each one a babble
a should and a have and a surrender
I’ve been through alien abductors
and old hags
but I’m still waiting
for that gentle touch
and you to say
that I am not
alone.

– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs_and_shrapnel_xxxi
[Inspired by the work of Esao Andrews.]