We’re all glass cannons breaking
as we fire. It doesn’t hurt
one bit, but every bit. I can see with my whole
body, but only on the Easter Vigil. Beds
are not tombs, but the stone in front
of the tomb. The coral light of day eats
I am not edible in sunlight. When pressured,
I produce a toxin called depression that alienates
all my friends. Some days you are not trapped
in a glass house; you are a glass house. I have
at least forty locusts in me each named
after a sin I have forgotten to commit.
This poem is not about what oak smells like
in the winter, but what it doesn’t smell like.
Sleeping into a dream I had backwards,
I woke up with a mouth like an empty tomb
and a need for you the same way Lazarus
needs a second death.
Geramee Hensley is from Cleveland, Ohio. He attends Capital University where he has taught a portion of a creative writing class and is the Co-Editor-in-Chief of the student literary magazine, ReCap. He is also the Managing Editor for the student newspaper, The Chimes. His work has been featured in Souvenir Lit Journal.
Tags: depression, e-zine, Easter, ezine, Geramee Hensley, glass houses, hyperbole, I want to be light again, longing, melancholy, melancholy hyperbole, new, poem, poet, poetry, poets, submit, tomb, writing
Such a charged write . . . especially love It doesn’t hurt one bit, but every bit.and the forty sins that you forgot to commit.