The Amaranthine Poet

People of the Black Cocoons

March 12, 2009 on 3:05 am | In Everything | No Comments

People of the Black Cocoons

I’ve talked with one of them before. I walked near her black cocoon, which heaved like a balloon and erupted slowly from the crusted earth. Her fingers unfolded and I could see her silhouette where the sun pierced through the cocoon. She spoke to me with her hands. Said she could feel me there and wasn’t sure she wanted me there. All around me were more cocoons erupting from the earth. Some of them appeared to be full of water and I heard the gurgling sounds of drowning within. The water is their tears, she told me. They wish that they could once again watch ravens carry the rainbow in their iridescent wings. They wish that they could lie in quiet fields again and drench their hands and feet in the sweet nectars of lush grass—smell the scent of emerald water staining the white-washed roses in the humming afternoon. They want to kiss the smooth, pale bark of the astrakhan trees and sway to the chimes of the birds. But they’ve given up and they’ve given it up. They shiver within the cold world they’ve hidden under. And they strain to hear the footsteps overhead, but nothing can be heard over their resounding groans.

I didn’t stay to hear anymore. I left her; I watched her fingers fold and her head drop. And the pearl of the sky beamed and could be found casting golden flakes into the emerald waters and pouring into the empty holes of the earth and swimming gracefully in the milk of an orchid.

Jenna Awad

If there is anything that the people of this world have mastered, it is the “art” of hurting others and hurting ourselves. Mothers, fathers, children, friends…these have become mere titles, and the intimacy of their meanings are often void. We carry the blood and heartache of so many people on our hands and manipulate each other into adapting deformed perspectives. We try to kill others and sometimes, cunningly so, we hand them the knife so that they can do it themselves and we don’t even realize it most of the time and when we do we don’t even care or try to change. We call ourselves “good” people, but by who’s biased standards are we measuring this claim? How many people do I see drowning in black cocoons and how much of the water is their tears and how much of it is our own?

And people say this world has no need of a savior. I guess pride is another “art” we’ve mastered.

Psalm 18:16-18 “He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. He rescued me from my powerful enemy, from my foes who were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my disaster, but the Lord was my support.”

Psalm 18:27-28 “You save the humble but bring low those whose eyes are haughty. You, Lord, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.”

Luke 8:12-15

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