Vesuviusfor T.E, I.E, and G.B
Heart felt like a volcano shelled by endless gunners testing artillery. Vesuvius erupted in 1944. Your cold face was dormant, arms placed over your chest, a sleepy giant so small, you lay hushed like the stillness of a Tibetan monk. Vesuvius did not erupt in 2007 although it wanted to, ‘asleep for now’ it said on the September issue of National Geographic. You died in June five months after her. - - - She used to feed me cabbage cores, tough clump of root gnawed away until nothing remained. Vacant stares littered the corridor occasionally met by lucid arms and desperate fingers, gnawing away until the clasp relinquished. You died five months before him. No goodbye. In a dream you sang a lullaby, I needed a pencil to jot down the tone of your voice, but I’ve never drawn a treble clef correctly, the fear of losing the tune made my brain melt to a puddle of piss. I imagine it to be a similar feeling to what is felt when a volcano is shelled by endless gunners testing artillery. - - - The story of streets on fire from the bombs, riding bikes amongst embers of attrition was only learnt after the end. She died in 2012 from a hug. In the moments I held her, she saw him standing near me, I’d never met his face but knew it well from trapped memories in frames, paused moments. There was a warmth. The dry chamber of my heart replaced by fairy lights, closed within a box and stored in the attic. When saying goodbye to the turkey and tinsel, there is a closure of the holiday period, a sense of acceptance that Christmas has finally come to its end. Excitement seems out of reach for at least 364 days, but midwinter signals midsummer, the gifts of the hollow hill bring comfort.
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SkrifaRead poetry, flash-fiction, ramblings, rants, all sorts of things. Thom writes for various ages and audiences so please check the post tags for suitability. ArchivesCategories
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