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From Twenty-Five to Zero

by Prospero Pulma, Jr.

It was a level ride until I disembarked at twenty-five
On a spotless field beyond the port;
With my bag full but weightless on my shoulders,
I marched to the terminal, squandering no strides.

At twenty-six, the field bloomed
With forests and gardens of skeletons;
My bag, half-empty now, cut deeper into my shoulders,
Sapping my pace, tying my strides.

Bivouacking at twenty-seven, my opaque sight
Measured the field’s length, breadth,
Depth of the bony roots stabbing the core
Of the forests and gardens.

The field, weighted at twenty-eight, revealed
Bony roots breaching the core beneath
And the mantle above, gutting the seeds.

From this, my bag turned limp, yet denser than a mountain,
So I marched no further, shrunk from the terminal,
Left the disemboweled seeds to rot at twenty-nine.

Copyright © 2013 by Prospero Pulma, Jr.

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