Dear Emily

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Dear Emily,

Old kitchens, born with the scent of
cardamom and cloves,
And the taste of recipes passed through

memories,
of rusty copper pans on the wooden stoves
Was delivered to my porch-
a beautiful concoction of cedar,
And human finesse
Where lurks the scents of sweet nothings.

Silver spoons entangled
with ivy of the past
Strangled my mind, pulled me back,
To such beauty that left me aghast.
Entangled in its bound
given in to its swear words
My limp arms ready to jump out of their socket,

To cook the ugly beauty inside human cages.

“Dim the lights”, I called out
to the sour winds in the rusty rooms
They screeched in return,
Shattering the neon bulbs in fumes.
With a smile plastered on I walked,
a china plate in hand
Solicitous to cultivate their hunger
for ashes and barren land.

A naked sight- so crude and raw
My skin crawls into itself
But my glassy eyes are tied
by the blood-soaked cords,
To the gritty, beauty in front
Pumping my life’s accord.

Many a day and night row away
yet I sit and stare, stung by fright;
By the foreboding silent howls of the wind
I’m terrified

Terrified.

Not of the white wisps in the mass of black
Not of the hitch in my breath
Not of my gouging eyes, rotten like seaweed
Not of my polished porch devoured by sullen termites
Not of the death of my human finesse
But, from the thought
Of slow poison of human callousness
Wringing the life out of raw beauty,
to bring it down to its conformity.

As the twilight rows back to the shore
I carefully wrap the tender package
Of an old porch born with the scent of sweet nothings,
to be delivered to the dawn to salvage.

As I pluck the gritty beads
Off tender skin
the fervid beauty-unpolished and bare
Engulfs me, as it once did my kin.
And I bid thee goodbye
For my life is on the verge

Just waiting for you to feel the cedar

Delivered to your porch.

 

 

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