Parched Meant
Soaked up sun today, like my body had never experienced it before.
I wanted to absorb the rays as they filled my belly with wanton lust
yet dried my heart as Sahara sands.
No lotion or pomade will heal the scarred patches of raw and
bloody pouches beneath my eyes.
Where the riverbeds are dry and a knowing drought ensues.
No happy crop will grow now, no hopes of harvesting a full
sustaining haul and storing for the lean season.
The lean season has crept up.
I talk to hear my own parched voice, I breathe when I remember.
Neither brings bread nor water nor tears anymore.
I need no grave. It is hot and dry and I willingly go to dust.
I need no witness for the winds to scatter ashes.
7/2015
Hopefawn Levenson
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