Dewell
A CURVE IN THE TELL
When my memory is worn
down to the bone and
my breath smells like
antique honey
my tears seep too soon
as crickets edge the night
and my lips become
the exposed tip
of my heart.
I marvel at the colors
in the promise
of an unlit match
as I wait in reverence
for the voice of a cross
carved from stone.
I’m not ready to kiss the earth;
there is a curve
in the memory of my tell.
-Dewell H. Byrd
A CURVE IN THE TELL
When my memory is worn
down to the bone and
my breath smells like
antique honey
my tears seep too soon
as crickets edge the night
and my lips become
the exposed tip
of my heart.
I marvel at the colors
in the promise
of an unlit match
as I wait in reverence
for the voice of a cross
carved from stone.
I’m not ready to kiss the earth;
there is a curve
in the memory of my tell.
-Dewell H. Byrd