Parched Meant

Soaked up sun today, like my body had never experienced it before.

I wanted to absorb the rays as they filled my belly with wanton lust

yet dried my heart as Sahara sands.

No lotion or pomade will heal the scarred patches of  raw and

bloody pouches beneath my eyes.

Where the riverbeds are dry and a knowing drought ensues.

No happy crop will grow now, no hopes of harvesting a full

sustaining haul and storing for the lean season.

The lean season has crept up.

I talk to hear my own  parched voice, I breathe when I remember.

Neither brings bread nor water nor tears anymore.

I need no grave. It is hot and dry and I willingly go to dust.

I need no witness for the winds to scatter ashes.

 

Hopefawn Levenson – 7/2015

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