My Walt Whitman
1
My Walt Whitman is endless,
words careening through each dawn until
I’m out of breath,
and I still don’t stop—I gasp and continue,
screaming beauty and praise and feeling
the trees with my voice
and stroking love with my tongue
in ways that my audience can never
crawl inside of.
2
I know that I am wonder,
that my fingers flying
embody grace and gentleness--
intrigue, intriguing, I am
the intriguer.
3
Meet me by the olive branches
and pray I pursue with my presence,
pray I let you touch the grass with me,
the dead and the gone and the living
ground to a fine green grit.
4
I do not want to be reduced
to the taffy-pulled alphabet--
create me out of shortsighted symbols
so that I am alone.
Build me up
just to let me fall,
for I will catch myself,
for I will kiss my wounds.
5
Through snake slits,
I observe the unfolding,
foldable scene--
vultures gorging on
afterlife, primal
to a pointed tip.
This is a moment
I slip into my pocket,
creased.
6
Satisfied with what
they have swallowed,
the marbles roll down
my skull.
Outside
looking in, they shatter
until slivers
bite my neck
into bruises
shaped like lust.
I don’t ask them
to remember
my name.
1
My Walt Whitman is endless,
words careening through each dawn until
I’m out of breath,
and I still don’t stop—I gasp and continue,
screaming beauty and praise and feeling
the trees with my voice
and stroking love with my tongue
in ways that my audience can never
crawl inside of.
2
I know that I am wonder,
that my fingers flying
embody grace and gentleness--
intrigue, intriguing, I am
the intriguer.
3
Meet me by the olive branches
and pray I pursue with my presence,
pray I let you touch the grass with me,
the dead and the gone and the living
ground to a fine green grit.
4
I do not want to be reduced
to the taffy-pulled alphabet--
create me out of shortsighted symbols
so that I am alone.
Build me up
just to let me fall,
for I will catch myself,
for I will kiss my wounds.
5
Through snake slits,
I observe the unfolding,
foldable scene--
vultures gorging on
afterlife, primal
to a pointed tip.
This is a moment
I slip into my pocket,
creased.
6
Satisfied with what
they have swallowed,
the marbles roll down
my skull.
Outside
looking in, they shatter
until slivers
bite my neck
into bruises
shaped like lust.
I don’t ask them
to remember
my name.
Aleah Dye primarily writes poetry, tending towards topics of morbidity, love, social justice, and philosophy. Her biggest inspiration is Walt Whitman, and she specializes in the free verse that he pioneered. Dye also writes fiction and nonfiction occasionally. She aspires to change people's lives and hearts with her words. You can find Dye's published book of poetry, If I Just Look Hard Enough, for purchase on Amazon and Sweek. You can discover her other works via publications like Ang(st) Zine, The Showbear Family Circus, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, and East Jasmine Review. Follow her @bearsbeetspoet on Twitter for more content.