by Bianca De Nobrega Silva
I am losing my mind.
I kneel in a river that retreats from my mouth.
I kneel beneath a tree that recoils from my hands—
ripe fruits flee into the unresponsive starry sky.
So I starve beside abundance.
Desire fattens; I grow thin.
My skull, a banquet hall of unfinished symphonies,
cathedrals built and abandoned,
exposed brick to haunt unsatiated hunger. I knew this all along.
I am losing my mind.
Collecting its cinders in my blistered palms—
cup the smoke and breathe a prayer
build a pyre from my ribs
and lie down filthy in the spark.
How to burn and be mistaken for salvation,
how to collapse into red whispers of ash.
From the ruin, winged and feral,
feathered in flame, shrieking with promise, I rise—
only to inherit the dryest tinder.
I knew this all along.
I am losing my mind.
The mountain waits, a patient verdict,
my shoulder pressed to a boulder
that knows me all too well.
The impossible weight of its roundness
the impossible summit to the top—
a peak to invent new sky.
But the fall is always faithful.
And I know how to harmonize with its echo.
I’ll do this again tomorrow.
I knew this all along.
I am losing my mind.
So I let it be lost.
Let famine kill me
let ash be swept by wind
let the stone choose its own path.
I will lie on jagged land and offer up my wrists
to the clanking chains of surrender.
If the gods require a body,
I have one.
And I will feed whatever vulture descends
methodical, unastonished,
and I will not flinch.
I knew this all along.
The serpent finally bites down around its heavy tail.
The world breathes through the wound.
They will eat
and eat,
and eat—
Bianca De Nobrega Silva is a Brazilian writer whose poetry is born of passion and stems from a curiosity for every kind of love and pain within the human condition. Silva earned a Bachelor’s of Arts in Psychology and English from Penn State University and has published poetry and essays in Kalliope, Folio, and KLIO.
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