Poetry

‘The Dog Breathes’ and ‘These things made to hold’

By: Aaron P. Meadows

nick-moore-695635-unsplash

I am the dog barking up the limbs of every tree,
wet my nose between limbs snatches prey’s scent,
soft like lavender edged with cloves,
hungrily lapping up the dregs of society
from prey to prey leaving only my dental mark.

With hair splayed in flames I stalk
the clubs and cafes alike
catching prey with melancholy eyes
and muscles sharpened by violence.
Beastly I come through your fear
and find my place in your lust.
For who is as loyal and as passionate
as the beast?

After the rippling of every wave,
this life like one breath it fades.
First breath like a reaching for the water’s surface
until the last breath is displaced,
and our bodies become still water
forever reflecting lackluster of life.
So why bury your head
whispering hackneyed judgments?
Our cadence thunders!
We grind into fate!
We are
Those afraid to never have done
not those who fear to do.

For those who pride themselves in not doing
feel my Stockholm jaw grip
and wait for me to take my fill.

Once my belly swells I slumber,
languid litheness lets my limbs lay.
To burn and blowout is my mode;
to burst open and scatter is my want.

But like the dog who has his fill
is seized by satiation
slumps slow and still sleeps
only rises cold in your absence.

###

These things made to hold

These porous bones and stitched epiphyses,
stilts holed by termites and softened, it rots–
12 kilograms of pressure ‘til it splits;
Laid upon by an entwined web of tubules
they transport 5 liters of sustenance
under and over pulleys in frail twists.

No wonder paper machete arms
made to hold broke.
Or scattered bones webbed in glue
let a hand fail to clutch.
Even striated water capsules between bones
popped while carrying, I tried.

No wonder, one toward another–
a human only, and only a human to be–
could hold but couldn’t hold indefinitely.
And yet I

miss the one when gone,
but when gone the feeling’s amiss.

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Categories: Poetry

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