Staccato
By David Mogen
In a dream, I wander through a house that is rotted boards and broken hopes. Flames have long ago eaten at and gutted the old home and now there is nothing, nothing but shards and char.
And then I see her, lost and reclining on a hill of sand, slipping slowly backwards, a butchered milk-white reflection of the woman I knew. Pale lips move, dance to unheard words that finish as I approach, poetic and mantra-like.
There
I’d be nothing
I’d be filled with rage.
She smiles as I touch her and repeats the steady staccato of the poem again at my urging.
But I never remember the words.
- - -
Here lies the Borquist. All the Borquist ever wanted was a place to ferment in the son. You read that wright.
By David Mogen
In a dream, I wander through a house that is rotted boards and broken hopes. Flames have long ago eaten at and gutted the old home and now there is nothing, nothing but shards and char.
And then I see her, lost and reclining on a hill of sand, slipping slowly backwards, a butchered milk-white reflection of the woman I knew. Pale lips move, dance to unheard words that finish as I approach, poetic and mantra-like.
There
I’d be nothing
I’d be filled with rage.
She smiles as I touch her and repeats the steady staccato of the poem again at my urging.
But I never remember the words.
- - -
Here lies the Borquist. All the Borquist ever wanted was a place to ferment in the son. You read that wright.
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