THE SAME SAVAGE CRY
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/338/1/THE-SAME-SAVAGE-CRY/Page1.html
Alison Eastley
Alison Eastley has been published in many fine journals including Blue Fifth Review, The Adirondack Review, Taint, The Absinthe Review. She has poems forthcoming in Sometimes City, Pig Iron Malt, and Snow Monkeys. By Alison Eastley
Published on 11/23/2005
You swallowed too much morphine in the morning. By evening,
the door was shut. Our room was cooler than usual. You tried to console
me by drawing me close while at the same time there was no time.
the door was shut. Our room was cooler than usual. You tried to console
me by drawing me close while at the same time there was no time.
You swallowed too much morphine in the morning. By evening,
the door was shut. Our room was cooler than usual. You tried to console
me by drawing me close while at the same time there was no time.
The drugs had seen to that. The drugs were the most permanent
moment of all. I watched if you were an implacable god making another fanciful demand. If that didn't work, there was a plea for pity
spun into a story so far fetched you insisted you were better
than any god even if you couldn't decide which one was handsome
or which one would have the most fun. Gods that self destruct
or run out of luck were never discussed. Maybe it's just as well
not to search, not to find, not to hear the savage cry never released
from your chest. It took three cardiac arrests. The doctor said
you have scarring on your heart. Is it the result of blood congealing
tighter than knotted wood? No one can carve their initials in that.
It serves as a record never expressed.
Copyright © Allison Eastley, 2005. All Rights Reserved.
the door was shut. Our room was cooler than usual. You tried to console
me by drawing me close while at the same time there was no time.
The drugs had seen to that. The drugs were the most permanent
moment of all. I watched if you were an implacable god making another fanciful demand. If that didn't work, there was a plea for pity
spun into a story so far fetched you insisted you were better
than any god even if you couldn't decide which one was handsome
or which one would have the most fun. Gods that self destruct
or run out of luck were never discussed. Maybe it's just as well
not to search, not to find, not to hear the savage cry never released
from your chest. It took three cardiac arrests. The doctor said
you have scarring on your heart. Is it the result of blood congealing
tighter than knotted wood? No one can carve their initials in that.
It serves as a record never expressed.
Copyright © Allison Eastley, 2005. All Rights Reserved.