LJ Idol Week 15: Patchwork Heart
In summer, she wove cello strings
into a net to catch all the
petals her lovers left
trailing behind them as
they searched other horizons
for smaller hearts than
her heart.
In spring, she wove her lovers' hair
into the net to make a nest
for the eggs born from
wondering what their
futures looked like in
wide open moors,
instead of her
wide open arms.
When fall came, none of the eggs
hatched, so she sculpted
the earth around her creation,
mud, dirt, and clay
the many colors of
the flesh of her lovers',
to create an urn from the
nest full of unhatched
potential.
Sometimes she could
even smell their skin.
In winter, she left the
talisman buried in a frozen
grave thirteen paces from her
front door because the
loneliness ached deeper
whenever it was around.
She cooked bone broth soup
and she laid in fur blankets.
She wrote letters to the people
she loved, and she burned them
in the hearth the same day.
In the spring, she emerged
from her hibernation
bleary eyed and blinking
in the sharp sunlight.
A network of vines overtook
everything: the ground, the house,
the well, her limbs.
She took a deep breath and a vibration
traveled through her rampantly.
Each vine held a story
of where her lovers had gone, what they had done,
who they had loved, and
where her lovers are now, what they were doing,
who they were loving, and
if she stayed still enough,
the vines told her the secret of secrets:
Her lovers' vines had sought her out, too.
***
If you liked this story and would like to read the other entries and vote, you can go here:
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1005827.html
The regular poll closes Sunday, April 23rd at 8pm EDT
into a net to catch all the
petals her lovers left
trailing behind them as
they searched other horizons
for smaller hearts than
her heart.
In spring, she wove her lovers' hair
into the net to make a nest
for the eggs born from
wondering what their
futures looked like in
wide open moors,
instead of her
wide open arms.
When fall came, none of the eggs
hatched, so she sculpted
the earth around her creation,
mud, dirt, and clay
the many colors of
the flesh of her lovers',
to create an urn from the
nest full of unhatched
potential.
Sometimes she could
even smell their skin.
In winter, she left the
talisman buried in a frozen
grave thirteen paces from her
front door because the
loneliness ached deeper
whenever it was around.
She cooked bone broth soup
and she laid in fur blankets.
She wrote letters to the people
she loved, and she burned them
in the hearth the same day.
In the spring, she emerged
from her hibernation
bleary eyed and blinking
in the sharp sunlight.
A network of vines overtook
everything: the ground, the house,
the well, her limbs.
She took a deep breath and a vibration
traveled through her rampantly.
Each vine held a story
of where her lovers had gone, what they had done,
who they had loved, and
where her lovers are now, what they were doing,
who they were loving, and
if she stayed still enough,
the vines told her the secret of secrets:
Her lovers' vines had sought her out, too.
***
If you liked this story and would like to read the other entries and vote, you can go here:
http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1005827.html
The regular poll closes Sunday, April 23rd at 8pm EDT