Yearning for the old language of my blood, bone, skin.
Searching for my stone, my soil
stained with grief
splintered with joy.
Echoes, wistful, reverberate a desire in me.
Layers of my past, senses, corrupt my present
force me toward a hard and piercing future.
But mollify too with soft promises.
I mourn the tanned, weathered experiences, pieces of myself.
I strain to hold them tight around me like protection against wind.
I seek out rivers, streams and ponds
forge through elemental forests
rejoice in the leaves’ breath harsh and tender
brush against walls, stone, foundations dense with histories
push along through familiar unfamiliar streets.
Forced to make choices, take paths one way only.
The present infiltrates, shoves and urges me forward
cuts into viscous layers of the past.
Here I am: child, girl, woman.
I am the storyteller.
I demand the past bind itself to me and keep with me in the present.
I am the story
I will not disappear.
Words and Picture (C) Carmit Kordov
Please visit Carmit Kordov Words and Pictures (https://www.facebook.com/carmitkordovwordsandpictures/ ) for more poetry, photography, writing and cultural content that veers towards Magic Realism.
This poem appeared in Corpse Roads (https://folkhorrorrevival.com/folk-horror-revival-corpse-roads/), a Wyrd Harvest Press book (https://folkhorrorrevival.com/wyrd-harvest-press/).