WAY OF THE EARTH

Death will come at him from every direction, but he will not die

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You don’t think about the leaving

until the swim runs long and breath runs short

or the boat begins to burrow against your body,

rough sand scraping you between the sand

and the living.

You don’t know how to live when

half your clan, your happiness, melts

into the asphalt, leaving your scarred body

scared and vibrating between here and—

Why am I here when they are not?

You don’t know how to shoulder

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your hot weapon when allies dip into the dirt

like crazed dolphins, manmade hail

littering the ocean of writhing beings,

sweat mingled with the unmentionable tears.

You don’t know how to lift the heft

of something broken like thick window panes,

shards of stained glass searing through fractured

heart and healing. So many ways to leave, you

cannot help but think.

You don’t know how it happens, lightning bouncing

through the bedroom or whispering under the train,

fierce metal rolling through the ticking tracks,

but as it rushes forward to meet you you ask,

What makes me so special?

You don’t know how to keep your eyes,

portals to the weary traveler, open,

something grander, deeper than sleep

summoning you towards the liquid light

and tender night after years of dwelling.

The way of the Earth is rumbling through the souls

of more than just our feet, fiercely or tenderly carrying

all of us towards the something we ache

to fear

or know.