Mouths of westward wind,
his lips a belated burden
an all-consuming bite.
I’ve bitten back—bit—I bite
mouthfuls of sutured skin. I spit this wind.
We’re taught to tote the breath of burden.
Unspoken pliable floss—burden
we thatch for love’s blistered bite.
Knee-deep in loss, onward wind,
onward. I’m planted within warm burden, nary this wind nor woven westward bite.
National Poetry Month: Day 7
30 poems in 30 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 30 in 30.
Love and Ink,