The Well


My past is a deep
Dark well.
When my mind quiets,
I hear the drips
Echoing against cobblestone.
I smell moss growing
And tadpoles nibbling at my toes.
It almost feels safe
If it weren’t so
Bloody cold.
Sometimes It takes over,
The feeling of it,
And I forget
I’ve climbed out.

There’s grass under my feet now
And warm kisses from the sun
There’s a breeze
Tickling my skin
And crickets
Misjudging their jump
And caressing my shin.
Clicks and chirps of birds
In distant trees.

But there’s always that whisper
In the back of my mind
Longing for a prison
Of deep dark slime.
How blind to light
I had been
A part of me longs
To dive in
And sometimes
It does.
But I’m always at the top
looking in
Turning the wheel
Pulling that part out again
And she always makes me laugh
When she gets to the top,
When she opens her hands
And shows me the shining
Slippery fish she’s caught.
We laugh
And run off
Towards the distant meadow
To bask in the sun.

-Angel Marie Russell

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