Far beneath the Rott’s gaze,
between pines and the red
rough of clay paths, waits

the thing you worked so hard
to avoid. “You”, or what’s left
of the thing once called you.

It never bleeds, or rips
in two the way Barda did
when Dad butchered her hull

and hung hooves, tied
from raw gallows ripped
in cypress bones and laurel

leaves. No burial, just splayed
and stripped of all things flesh,
feeding the mouths of those

who would leave life behind,
and raise the black steer
from some grave, lost to memory.

Dig all you want, the bones
lie cold beneath feet,
heavy with guilt.


2 Responses to “Barda”

  1. Wow, This is deep. Interesting.

  2. This is very deep., but you penned your thoughts and feelings very well. Great job.

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