|My Copy||library paperback|
|First Read||August 11, 2016|
The Well Speaks of its Own Poison
I picked this up because I discovered everybodys-favorite-depressing-poem-for-parents, Good Bones recently. It's all there, in this collection of fairytale-inspired work. But what I didn't counter was just how brutal this kind of thing over and over would be, with very little space for joy or hope. It's good, but man - it's grim.
Noted on August 26, 2016
The stories say the banished dead are wild now,
crouching among scrawny trees, skinning rabbits
and raising them like lanterns. Who needs light
when you’re disfigured, kept from even the idea
of heaven, with slit throats or bulging eyes or
bits of skull clinging like pieces of seashell.
The stories say they have no hearts. That they wear
the broken bodies they left in. They can’t be
whole again, but at least they can stay in the woods,
under the creek bridge. At least they can lick dew
from leaves until their tongues rust. At least
if the creek runs, it will keep them from seeing
their reflections, their eyes too haunted to be the eyes
of deer. The stories say that you can hear them.
That they sing by the lanterns of skinned rabbits.
That the music is what coats the grass with frost.
Quoted on August 26, 2016