The First Day I Left

The first day of resounding dawn
pushing roses through my ears.
Marred by the thorns and brutalized 
by might, the infidelity of truth appeared
at the sun’s first light. I found myself
buried in gold you’d long since forgotten,
plucking sprouts from the yard I’d made 
my grave. Rising and crying and pulling
dirt between my knees, I’d located some 
orientation of stars who’d seen it all. 
I’d forgotten the intolerable tenderness
that marked the stare of the pines— I’d 
forgotten the loving hands of a long, winded
vine. I’d fashioned a dress made by my own
glittering intent and I’d relinquished my spine 
to a man who knew better. But in build,
in decay I’d learned how to say tricks 
and songs with rocks behind my teeth. 
I’d adorned my own gravestone with hyacinth 
and tobacco leaves, constructing new 
handholds with abhorrence and teeth. 
The first day of dawn showed me a trembling 
fawn the second I’d sheathed my swords
and my feats. In an air of survival, for the start 
of spring, I’d like to tell you I’ve changed. 
I’d like to tell you how I’ve been listening. 
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