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
my corneas.
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.
Categories: Poetry
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
Melancholy Hyperbole 
Such a charged write . . . especially love It doesn’t hurt one bit, but every bit.and the forty sins that you forgot to commit.