Smoky Mountain Bonsai (After Bonsai by Edith Tiempo)

All that we are; I buried them
Under the Smoky Mountain pile of the past
All that we are—
The flowerpot stationary holder you gave me
Riddled with fake flouncing flowers,
The Sterling greeting cards
Inking irksome lies.

It’s utter sublimation
That you should be expelled through verse,
There’s a wild hope,
Hope hoping for a purpose
For memories sour and deep.

Yet all that we are end up
With the snotty green samples,
Beside pads of red coagulation,
Under things unenergetic once electric,
On top of half eaten delights,
Between the poems that are dead,
Heaped on with the songs that disgust.

All that we are,
Pierced through and murdered
As I was left in the dark.
But you said the dark was being kind.
How kind you kept me—
From the truth
How kind you took—
The only man I ever desired like slipping sand
Because you knew you could.

And if he were broken pieces
You’d still be possessed to hold
Because if you can grab, you will have
And that’s the only thing you’ve ever known.

All that we are,
Slow by slow, piece by piece,
Slit by slit, memory by memory,
Becomes crumpled, and continues to crumple,
Splitting as ink tips scratch the rage,
Because all that we are—
The life and love turned unreal,
Are the things you chose to run over
And dispose of into the nearest pile.

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