No Language

Description: Digital Media

Published: 07/22/2020
Byline: Hollingsworth

No Language 

For years I’d see Tim free fall from some height while sitting still 
in the backwoods of his life 
after his wife 
of alcohol poisoning he cut off his heart finger
like a Lakota
as he told her story I imagined the silhouette 
of a woman staring out of a window
the light is so intense it pushes the edges
of her silhouette towards the middle 
into a thin black line waving like a blade of grass in the wind

…while trembling we still offer our hand
we still take the journey 

off the grid: wireless walls (I still feel the feral freedom of being
when I asked about what’s inside (what you taught from
a branch bowed down from 56 winters of snow
living from the bottom of the world you inherit 
the dread of things being upside-down forever
…you said
“what you see is what you get”

an unexpected heart attack while alone 

You existed. You took breath. 
You loved your cabin on the mountain: 
red gravel and clay silt
an old miner’s road that led from your front yard (your best friend: a crow 
up the unnamed mountain (flies miles above searching for you
to a grassy cliff overlooking the 25 corridor
where we sat once in remnants of an 
older cabin–a silver miner 
only the outline of a foundation remained and it felt like wind and rain were
watching each other     and that we are all   
like missing stones ::: dropped into the sea
at midnight                  every day we live and die at the same time 
as blood runs the border between     like dead a man’s river that drips away
like trying to see someone approaching through glass
when all you can make out is a glare                 from the inside

through the misty panes of the cabin   
:::   I see footprints  

:::  in the snow

                                                          leading up to the door 

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