I have no memory of your voice. I can't rewind
and play it back like some tape recording in the spinning cogs
of my thoughts. I have no records, no paint
splattered on the walls of the cave
hollowed between our lives.
That cry I uttered when I was pulled from you,
splayed before the world is also, I assume, forgotten.
So we are even.
The echoes have been long going,
but are now terminally forgotten, and I can mourn
the colors of all the days we missed by keeping eyes
solely on each other's throats, but they've passed.
Mother, outside, today, there was a purple fire
like Mars riding down to trample us all. The world burned,
and was renewed in light.
I just wanted to tell you.
Cortney Bledsoe, USA. Editor of Ghoti Magazine