April 2 – A Matter of Conjugation

I forgot
what it means
to want, to
feel the burning
desire of a
quickened and
slowed
heart
beat.

I forget
how to pray
at least
once a day
but tend
to find it in
warm
sun
rays.

I am forgetting
the sound
of your voice
with each
minute I do not
call, with
each question
that
goes
unanswered.

I will forget
those questions
before I
call you next,
they will
melt into forever
with
me
wondering.

I have forgotten
how to
forgive, but
I am
beginning to remember
what it feels
like to
want
to
forgive.

(C) JS 2023

Thunder

Bricks cower from the Thunderbird,
wings like cracking paint
threatening forgetfulness, He carries
the storms on his wings,
whispers wind into currents;
He is life without breath
and death without pain,
He is the footprints of elephants –
gone but not forgotten.
He remembers.

He remembers the color of the dirt
before it was clay,
and the color of an unseen sky,
He knows the sound of lullabies
hummed to wet cemeteries, if not
for the tune then to save
the living from the silence –
they fear it almost
as much as He fears the thunder.

He cannot look at the ground lest He long to land –
the Thunderbird was born to the sky,
fused to his bones in the flash,
and when we search for him in the rain,
He hides in the hurricanes,
knowing if we ever found him
we would stuff his feathers into a pillow,
rest our heads on it,
and pray to dream of the thunder.

JS (C)