Martins Deep reads Tell Grief on The Poetry Experience Podcast

Tell Grief

In a prison of glass,                    a stone

                                                       is the hand of God. when

it shatters            these walls

                              to  p i e c e s,         the sound filters

                                                              into the ear

a tickling flutter                                  of freedom

With trembling fingers,    i’ll skein

the rays of                          this lamplight

into a tongue

to shred this darkness. i’ll say,                    “light, be”

                                                                          & become

where fireflies go

to form a North Star

Tell grief, the hand that writes on the wall

& chalks the lintel

of my room               to mark a water level

                                    for my drowning

now plays a violin

moaning as mother’s ghost

gardens my body

into a rich seedbed                of benedictions

Tell grief everything  b r o k e n  inside me

is  fallowed ground

for the coming of rain.

for so long, you’ve saved your kiss for a gravestone

i knew your body’s map/ enough to blindly throw myself

trusting it’ll land safely in a lake/ a body

of water for drowning/ the things that tusks/

a suicide note /from the cliff

of my tongue /to unfold on my mother’s lap/ in the dark/

i placed my ears on your chest /& heard your heartbeats

as footfalls of exiled ideas/ it was after that long walk

back from burying your broken violin /whose strings

your father’s pliers bit apart/ but your veins bled, staining

his teeth/ i stood there, playing /a helpless witness

in a script/ i wanted to be a hero/ that evening/

i remember your body cold /against mine

your head on my shoulder/ i’d later realize/

was the mold for the headstone /of your dead dream

i’ve beaten my forehead/ into the shape of an ode

to what it cannot have/ meaning, i have hit & hit

the walls in my room /with this part of me

aching with a longing/ to mirror yours /to bear

the brand of your lips/ and not just the stain

of your lipstick that’ll wash away/ in the shower

it’s our eight date tonight/ & i soften my lips

in the petrichor/ & moonlight after rain/ i draw them to yours

only red /only ripe with a longing/ for the gravestone

of a man/ whose name you overwrite /with ‘trauma’

in an invisible ink