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dionysus / Elle Provolo
dionysus
Elle Provolo
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even if the peach tree does not bloom
its pits will remain in the ground.
walking barefoot over the weeds
I avoid the fungi
it reminds me too much of death
a resurrection only to kill
and I sink into the sweetness,
a land soaked in honey.
the ghosts of the fruit that never were
haunt me, create a dull smog that never clears
a humidity that feeds on the weakness of my own memories. I would cry for
help but my voice is gone
nothing recovers that shares the same breath as the roots
a throat, sore and longing.
God doesn’t recognize me anymore
even though we share a name
a hollow spirit, holiness.
