for the revolution we inherit nothing but ashes & empty bones smog envelops this city & i am here searching for remains beneath the grass once out of winter-dead slumber when i walk i feel the curve of the earth waiting for the end of the world this is a beginning my hands are clenched * we like to think there is no darkness, but there is darkness when i was young i was scared of this as it crawled through the curtains suffocating cutting like a knife against bare skin as sharp as glass * this is not a war i call my own i walk along the edges of lines, the polluted sea drowns the land we are on opposing ideals yet we all walk on the earth's fractured surface carrying scars & loss & when I am gasping for breath in my own darkness - you will not notice Joanne Fisher
I was going through some old magazines in one of my bookshelves and found a poem of mine I had forgotten about. I must have written this when I was around 21 I think. My younger self didn’t know how to properly edit, so I ended up reworking parts of it. I kept the title, though I think it’s my attempt at being enigmatic… It strikes me as a precursor to my poem Drought Rhythms.
This poem first appeared in Onion, no.2
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