Trapped in this barbed, gorse cage
I can only hear the sirens who
Drown the sorrow of lives gone by,
Who give comfort in decibels
And sweet lies of poor me.
The familiar machete at my feet
That will free me from these fields of thorns,
And the remorse I feel,
I mistake for some souvenir of
An antique religion.
What was once a prickly hedge
Has grown wild now.
Its delicate, yellow flowers
Which when turned into wine,
Sing songs of joy and freedom
That must be picked one by one,
Take too much time.
So with poisoned waters at hand
I stand and spray the land.
And this Medusa’s thorny garland,
Stands its ground and multiplies,
Refusing to be tamed,
Until I can no longer tell my body
From its growth.
And then at once I am the gorse,
The machete, the yellow flowers
And the spray, the sirens and the decibels,
The self and the cage.
This gorse that once I saw
Has now become fields of being.