after John McCullough
I find comfort in the ground, stalwart earth
beneath a body I dream of as lifeless;
surrounded by the hands of everyone who knows
sadness deeper than the wells it purports to dwell in –
who have known an ache without a name,
but a face, identical to their own.
I find comfort in looking up at a sky
which spills our secrets and french kisses the stars;
the constellations I hope we all become
when blood ceases to run, screaming, through our veins.
I hope there is peace in falling, in the darkness of night.
I find comfort in our wish to count each day
as lived, survived; a turned page in a library of sorrow.
I see your sadness and call it home,
a place we can share and feel beautiful in,
until the misfiring synapses begin to make sense
and concrete feels less warm.
I find comfort in falling, and holding your hand.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2021