Tomoko Irie 2017SPR

Tomoko Irie

[Alaska 4]

Stitches

The rain thaws my thoughts
of you, the earth, and I,
softly draining the cold from
frozen fingertips, my veins are rivers
That gouge out the rock
to form rifts of life, to shift
tides, to weld valleys, to connect
the mountain pass to the stones,
The pebbles laugh and I hear the echo
of your words upon the wind
that flows from the sloping trees;
Blackened branches etch a tale
of the ancient times and it burns
whispers of leaves into my flesh.

They draw arcs upon my skin,
etchings of sinister, dampened lines
Trailing residue ash, the coils of light
disintegrating into sparks; the sky
brightens with a million shards
of fireworks, every kiss of reflection
sinking beneath the surface
of the water, the depths pulling, pulling,
As if it had grabbed my hair,
strands stretching, crimson running
in fine strings from pale fingertips;
I wrap them around my wrists,
my ankles, watching the inky stains
spider across the crevices in my skin;
I breathe in and hold my breath
as the crevices turn to rifts, expanding
to form the deepest oceans.

Deathless [stage 1]

Wilderness of Mirrors

Shards of glass crackle underfoot, as sneakered feet traverse
the silent expanse of a shadowed forest, the sunlight
rippling through crevices in branches, needles hanging
by threads of cobweb, glistening as daggers do
as their thirst for blood thickens with each coming hour;

Echoes of water tear the eardrums as dull thuds expand
within small corridors of color, gathering speed
as dew drops rustle against the tender greens of spring,
caressing the veins that flow with the pools of life,
following the paths of ancient melodies;

I carry my backpack filled with memories, as they cling
like a million mirrors to my soul, gripping the edges
of the fabric of my being, strongly like twine, rough
enough to leave calluses like little pebbles of thoughts,
racing through the wilderness within me, with the crumbling
remains of metallic powder dripping into the forest floor

Summer

It really wasn’t like a song, you said,
as your voice melted over the ice cubes in my iced tea.

You draped word after word upon my skin,
tracing the stars that had fallen there,
dusting away the singularities that stung
like needles and thread, trying to sew me back
together, to repair the damage that was wrought
by the years,

a patchwork quilt

The plastic chair seemed to curl to accommodate
my feelings, myself, and I, as I glanced at you
over the brim of my glass, the cold sinking
under my nails, under my flesh, to settle upon
my shoulders, whispers of some unknown poison
trying to echo into my mind; don’t mind the hands,
they like to wander but they do make a point:

I wish I could hold your hands in mine

To let the heat of summer shimmer upon the ground
and chase us back inside, to the buzzing fans
and the radio on low, softly blasting pop songs
that ripple in the air

It really wasn’t like a song, I can hear you say,
Again, repetition, a cycle, round and round;

Then, I hear my voice blossom,
what was it really like?

Sizzling sun drowns out your reply and I squint
upwards, my hand shadowing my face,
casting a strange pattern of lines upon my cheek

deathless, she walked, deathless,
as clouds of white breathed upon her skin,
deathless as the eternal blossoms
forming on her brow, as silent and vigilant
as the waves that kiss the shores; deathless,
she brings a lantern filled with fireflies
to light the way for lost travelers,
pale fingers restless against the skin
of the trees, deathless as the graceful swan,
arching its neck, a curl of white,
feathers glistening on moonlit waters,
deathless, unmarked graves, patches of sand
rustled by wind, handprints walk up
the edges of the tombstone, eagerly
devouring the granules of time, as
time is deathless, marked by the coils
of a snake upon its tail; endless,
deathless as the shadows that linger
as the sun climbs into the sky, sheltered
by rock, tree, bird, and creature, who
unknowingly, cries to the heavens until
breathless; deathless, her hand carried
her away, out to the crescent-shaped island
far out at sea, her feet encased in
ice; deathless, as the towers of lore
that held up the walls of stone and sand,
until the crumbling vines too hold;
until it was not deathless, timeless,
but filled with the tendrils of a life
coming to a close, not deathless: lifeless.