Hemlock

 

Hemlock

 

the new year perches against the edge of winter

tentative, I write

with resolutions only penciled  

while another speaks

unsure of which sentence could broker my next existence

or will this one, be the limit of my stretching

the point where my body’s resonance fails

and memory beings to curl against itself, a leaf fallen

to the ground

tell me a story

the one with the happy ending

I have read too much sadness

I have felt too little relief

Sing me a song

The kind that raises the rafters

I have been overly aware

I have shifted itchy on my own feet

The old year plods weary leaning over the ledges of winter

Careful, I write

While others think

With experience barely counting

I am confident of less than nothing, and yet hopeful

That dreams can still be prophetic

The point where reality and fantasy are mixed

A cocktail I drink down like an elixir

A dram, a sham

A philosopher’s suicidal duty