On Emptiness
Receding
(For The Dead Inside)
0402.2025
You are receding—
falling into the horizon
like dusk devouring light.
I struggle saving you—
but even your shadow vanished.
When our thread tore,
it took the scent of spring—
the flowers had just begun
to color my smile
with the lie of joy.
Then came the light—
unforgiving,
unblinking—
dragging the dead
from my heart
into their graves,
and beneath time’s silence,
which keeps them
as captives.
They are like you:
a goodness,
a fragile fire,
burning out
and falling
into a lesson
inside a thousand
lessons.
I must be thankful somehow—
but the gratitude burns.
My eyes have turned to deserts.
The sun devours me.
The night drinks my life.
What goes unnamed
because you lied?
What am I to think,
now that I see—
the joke is me?
I will think:
Turn me into a bird,
so my wings break
from my hiding heart
and carry its sorrow
from night
into half-light.
At least.
I will think:
Turn me into dust,
so I forget
what I have learned
ten thousand times.
I will think:
Let spring
cover me.
Let summer
end this cold.
Let something bloom
in the ruin
of my garden.
m.c.f.
Photo, 2024, m.c.f.
To Someone
Father
0514.2013
My mouth blooms like yours—
sharp-edged, it’s bloody full of
the things I should’ve swallowed.
Sometimes I think about
matching my eyes to yours—
the ones you gave to my face
and lit with defiant flames.
Then I’m freckled like you,
say god damn too much.
Piss and vinegar.
A little chaos.
A little poetry.
You gave me that, too.
I still can’t tuck my life into neat tidy corners.
But, you couldn’t either.
All my creations—
The paint, inks, and mess,
carry the weight of your absence
and your wild blood.
If there’s anything left of you out there—
on the wind,
in the chords of a song,
In the pluck of your strings,
in whatever heavenly body—
may you find my work,
and know your daughter by it.
m.c.f.
On Longing
Birds
0214.2025
The restless bird in my breast
Sings the sun to set lower,
Sings to your gentle face,
Bottomless eyes,
Sings, and is singing still
The bird in my blood
Sings to the moon
Sings of your hands
And unraveled soul,
Sings of its flame -
Now in my waking dream
The bird in my body
Sings to the bird in your body
Sings you to your other half,
Sings you to yourself.
m.c.f.