Poem: Beloved

By: Janna Vought


My life is a field, the field
where I’ll soon be scattered.
I still tend frozen flowers
trapped in frost, not ready
to say goodbye.
I wake in darkness,
try not to slip
down a black stinking hole,
on my knees before angels
(angels don’t walk, they hover).
They gather in glitter shadows,
prepare to nail wings to the dead.

Time decays.
I wait for my resurrection,
wrapped in weight of my sadness
its silk lining cool
slick against my skin.
Machines fill me,
some more complex than others,
a mess of wires, circuit boards and chords
ignore my commands to heal.
I stand in the shower,
close my eyes. Water trickles down
my head, tip of my nose, lips, chin, down
into a lazy vortex around drain, disappearing
into the abyss below.

Nightmares swallow me.
Burnt remains of angel fire
drift down, clings to my eyelashes.
I don’t want to die
little dog at my side
waiting for me to awaken,
fix her dinner, Jane Doe #7
stored in the coroner’s crypt
deep in the belly of the hospital,
Soft, no bones, my flesh
congeals, flows,
puss, plasma, and protein
all that’s left of me.

I sleep with ghosts
who don’t dent the pillow.
I’ve seen my last rose open.
Is it possible to vanish
in the twilight of sunless color
before flowers and flies descend?
A nomad, gypsy (Monster) all my life, never
fit in, never quite right.
I’m my own grave digger,
fresh hex, hull of bones.
Reaper touch my lips, eclipse
my dreams, bless me with a gray miracle,
turn my days to dust (magic decay, dance
of the rotting), gone from this broken
world, finally—free.

Lord, Our father I pray
I may understand hallowed be thy name your presence
even when I don’t feel you thy kingdom come near.
My faith fails me thy will be done.
I speak to Jesus
(forgive my sins) to avoid hell Amen.
Sand slips through my fingers.
Why am I still here?
It’s been November far too long,
waiting for December’s light:
quiet, pure, still.
Lift what’s left of me
from gloom, hand my daughters
a small wooden box, disintegrated body
entombed within; my heart
already gone.

Death whispers.
The final breath
ferries the soul
too weak to reach Heaven.
Did I ever exist at all?
God, breathe
new life into me.
I’m not yet ready to go.

The beloved
contains us all.


Categories: Poetry

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