“The fountains of my great deep are broken up.”
—Mark Twain in a letter to his boyhood friend, Will Bowen
Fountains of my great deep are broken up
and churning to an eager froth blueprints
of an empire somebody believed in with
such passion they begat the likes of me.
The currents that alarmed me as a pup
I thrashed against for years. It makes me wince
to think that happiness derives from stiff
unyielding lips sealed for sake of loyalty.
Every laundered past must one day disrupt
as eggs will hatch and thin-skinned fears evince
their bloodlessness. I blow a quiet kiss
to ossified, outdated tyranny.
The geyser of my frozen deep now flows
through limbs revived in lovers’ sweet repose.
© Elaine Stirling, 2015