At the Core
At the Core
by Mara Lemanis
Between the end
and the beginning
hours, days, years
things remembered
things forgotten
the pulp in
growth rings
coiled
adamant
inside the timber
whorled in
hours, days, years
We still the churning hour
and cut across the rings
plumbing the spiral
of our days
hunting for the sap
inside the bark
from many rings ago,
to find the bud
we grafted
laughing at necessity;
it begged to open
as we sealed
its breath.
The wood is dry
safely planed
finished flat
a polished disk--
things remembered
things forgotten--
pulp gone stale…
We touch the surface
sore ashamed
biting hard
through
to the core.
Laughing,
we seal
the dying buds,
sealing
our breath.
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