Momento Mori & Atlas & Blush

J.L. Moultrie

Memento Mori

My youth was spent in
a room; I could nearly
touch the opposing walls with
both hands. At sixteen, there
was an incident inside of me.
It must have been a spectacle-
worthy of slowing down your 
car to watch. 

The days are 
dark blue, but each sublevel of
grief reveals another hue.
A flock of pigeons nest in
the attic. I have the habit
of not knowing what my body
will do next. It was a daydream.
My own voice sounds strange
when I say things. Suicidal
ideation is hard to
abandon.

With the patience
of August butterflies, I walk
in and out of fields. The
catalyst to heal is covered
in blood and dust – its
patina feels like braille.
My cell is somewhat Darwinian,
each conclusion is a facet of the
beginning. 

I go on sinning;
cauterizing each nerve
ending. My altercation 
with the sky is just
a parade of images.
The germ of ambivalence 
rests in my genes. These 
scenes cease departure, breaking 
my skin; revealing a kid
in the throes of neglect.

Atlas

         I

The exodus of
my truant blood
came swiftly upon
the crisp, stoic snow.

The rewards were
vacated long ago,
in the parking lots 
and summer garages.

We sing in a darkness
not of our own making.
We’re brief candles
upon wet stone.

           II

Our mirth rests
like the shadow and decay 
of bridges. Our bodies collide
with the venom of storms.

The years fell out
of sight long ago – 
drifting and contorting
above placid waters.

The feeling of the past
is querulous and torrential.
We got turned around 
in the downpour.

           III

Like interlopers,
we no longer speak
but infer the harm
from long distances.

I stopped tolerating 
my mind long ago.
(Atlas Continued)

Moving from mask to mask
is laborious, to say the least.

My smile is an 
exposed fault – 
restless, meandering and 
tolling from the slightest touch.

Blush

It was so clear
before the blank
artifice of night - goodbyes aren’t
heavy enough to form
a counterweight.

Boyhood is a shrinking star – 
The space between flowers.
These visions sang through us,
wafting into debris.

My armor is kept inside.
A yearning that refuses 
to sink
breaks across
the caliginous void.

A chain of bare 
wreckage forms my mind.
Something vital is
disarmed, taken to the 
bitter chasm of memory,
and torn asunder.

J.L Moultrie is a native Detroiter, poet and fiction writer who communicates his art through the written word. He fell in love with literature after encountering Fyodor Dostoyevsky, James Baldwin, Rainer Maria Rilke and many others. He considers himself a literary abstract artist of modernity.