by Carmen Eichman
Yes.
I want the wild wind to return,
to sear this sterile landscape sorrowfully sanitized
in my sophomoric rationality only bleak-hearted birds
are foolish enough to believe, my explosive expatiation on
a silent fall no one heard, no one saw, my deceased
passion-pitched platform where my real ghost now rests.
Yes.
Bring back my maniacal misery that set fire to my chest,
slung hate and love and reckless joy within the daily darts of a thousand words,
hands that gripped my hair, gripped great gulping gallons of our hurricanic breaths
that spun poetic sirens plunging into the blood-filled pillars, molten heather
moors of our hearts where now only winter’s weary existence, its war-stripped sails,
sifts sordidly across, sequesters and petrifies, our silent, sepulchral plain.
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