the Blow

by Noah Haalilio Solomon

halfway through overripe avocado,

moments before pit slip as

fingers scathed the sharp serration

dawned the difference between warm halos radiating

soft white light

and the storm of plummeting spears

downward to where gossamer flesh worn

nearly through,

barely escapes the familiar puncture.

 

9.

9 nights nocturnal: existing in moonshine

and the groan of wind – there i am,

sneaking like vines through barren dirt

up stucco wall, through fecundity’s absence

yielding bleakly mostly porous and nothing but hands

gently washing fruit of rough exterior,

extracting love

and dreams for the wild and the mad.

and this is what we’ve come to?

 

i cling to the chord that never stops,

in the song that lasts 10 minutes,

and the sikh sings peace back into my depths and i mark the point

of undulation.

of vibration.

over unblemished sand dunes where i indulge in powdery wisps of

zeal and buoyancy,

to float in this space where grief pools dark and quickly

like the blood of a clean ripe wound.

 

is it gone?  i see lines curve, toward and against one another

and come to sharp corners that hurt to look at and the conflict is

blurred

and i no longer see what i’m fighting for.

silence sought. it stays awhile, then broken and here

are the shards of memory that tread

stubbornly in the foreground,

nagging at the delicacy of the flow that sometimes

stops completely…

because i have nothing left in me to give.

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