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.