(This piece was prompted by today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, using Adrienne Rich’s “What Kind of Times Are These” as my inspiration)
in winter, trees are stark naked, like my truths
when they creak and groan in the howling wind
your ears prick up, fixated and keen
living under them, as you do.
I know my truths are hushed, silenced and quashed
shriveled scarlet maple leaves, flaming in shame
peeking, hide and seeking, from their burial spots –
hidden ‘neath the blizzard banks, ‘tween I can’t tell and you won’t ask.
it’s funny how I disappear a little more each day
in this wasteland of muzzled testimony,
gagging on marinated bear paws, downed with guzzled vodka
as I wonder how I landed in this Siberia of veritas, right here at home.
I am a shadow of myself, disappeared with my truths
lost, until I stumble upon the gathering place, brimming
with diademed women – walkers of the shadowed roads – who conjure
now the midday sun, glittering experiential jewels, scattered in hilltop shouts.