I, Too, Shall Come To pass

by Emily Kell, 2012


I woke into my sleeping and dreamt that spores of myself were spreading somewhere in another dreamscape where

it was not fall in Savannah:

an empty space between the seasons

where siren screams did not ricochet against the sidewalks and the rooftops putting invisible creases in the map of the city where sobs gathered to run like rain drops to the gutter


and the sound never disperses but is fossilized

and hangs somewhere in the humidity

an ossified and collective emotional scar

even the sunflowers could feel it and they hung their pretty heads

like overripe southern bells


I felt the weight of my ephemeral skin sagging against the rusty wheels of the world

and prayed to the Great Blank Space above

that we were not the formless persistence of words

that drains the grains from our hour glass

not the afflicted knobs that filled our craniums with godlessness

not the flesh that filled our shoes

not our lips of ash

our pits of smoke, and skins of sin

the Great Blank Space rolled open for a moment just to tell me no

you are not asleep

you are not eternal

wake to the green dawn of great death

as the moon projects you like a needle on the record of yourself


wake up