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semi on hiatus because i have decided i am no writer

totoloche grapes

May 5, 2018


they had sat 
​to the hills
​and stared, not down,
​but up to the horizon
​and the clouds
which dispersed 
like ash, and the light,
dappled and glimmering
​in imitative discord.
​they had worn cotton like silk
​and eaten banquets of totoloche grapes
​and made grand speeches with golden laughter
​bedecked themselves in foliage crowns and emeralds, then
retreated into palaces of straw and hollowed wood
​like settlers
​deepening the footsteps
​of their foremothers and fathers,
singing their songs and
​telling their tales, and
making their music, and
​and trading their riches: the
currency of pulses and 
​and the sun, the fifth sun,
​the sun of their time and its
​sister moon
​which cradled their children
at night
​in aching starlight.
​they lived like kings and queens
​on the hills, until the fall,
​until the others came, 
​until the rain began, and
it's still their agony
imprinted on this soil, and now
​the air still throbs 
with their grief 
​and the water still holds
​the liquid rippling of
their cries in concentric 
​circles, outwards,
​as time and time's people
tore them away from one another
​limb from limb
​in brutal amputation
of mother from child
​until all that remained
​on the hills 
​were the vines,
​the vines growing
​pregnant with the spring,
​the vines swelling blood-red
in monstrous ripeness,
​the vines of 
​totoloche grapes.



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  • May 5, 2018 - 10:17am (Now Viewing)

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