Two Poems by Mimi Hopper

Red Sea

I used to think that there was an entire ocean lying beneath my own skin, and there was.
It seemed to be that I was swimming and succumbing to a flood that I contained within myself.
To feel the warm depths of golden waves enveloping my head was all that I craved,
and I tried with everything I had to get to it.
I tore myself apart trying to get to the shore, but perhaps I hadn’t realized
that there was more to waves and golden waters than I had imagined.
I found the ocean, but I had dug too deep.
There was a red and rubbish sea, a hurricane unfurling inside of me.
It was something that I couldn’t feel, not until I had seen with my own eyes that it was real.
I watched in horror and dismay as all of my hopes and fantasies were washed away.
The tumultuous crimson currents that gushed out of my skin
reminded me only of the anguish and turmoil that I was in,
and the tides were stronger than any wave I’d ever felt before.
It swallowed everything it encountered until
there was nothing left
but
my body,
and
the shore.

 

N O S T A L G I A.

It is the tainted, colorless Polaroid image of an unknown place,
every memory of every undulating field of tall grass and corn.
It is the ridges and elbows of crystalline structures
in the middle of a bustling cobblestone city,
and the crevices in the palms of my tan hands.
It is every gray moment love ever known. You know the ones.
The leafless trees and colorless sky, and yet it is still brimming with life, and bursting
with sweet, oh so very
sweet music.
Wistful melodies of the past haunt us as we parade an empty street.
Not a single body to be seen tonight but you and I partaking in a lonesome stroll
not on brick road, but snow beneath our boot clad feet.
It’s Christmas-like.
In the distance can be heard the sorrowful lament of a well known jingle,
but it doesn’t sound quite so familiar on this night.
It sounds softer, and it is filled with more earnest.
It nearly resembles something of a mourning of what once was, but will never again be.
It isn’t sad, but desolate indeed.
It is as if this point in time — the empty road and the song and the snow;
It is almost as if it never really existed.
It seems like so distant of a time
that I can barely remember or tell whether it ever happened at all.
It is an uncertain space suspended far above and beyond the earth,
floating in a universe so quiet and different from our own.
Ours is chaotic.
In our sky, fiery balls of ice and wandering stars
clash and collide in catastrophic explosions.
Meanwhile,
in this silent universe of the past,
everything is still and time is expelled.
It takes place in the golden age of bygones, and manifests itself in your memory,
so you can’t ever go there, you can only remember it.
love never been, but love felt it.
It is far beyond our reach,
but it is lovely and morose at once to remember and reflect.
Bittersweet is, to say the least,
a side effect of its presence.
N O S T A LG I A.
love never seen, but I know.
I’ve heard it with my own ears, and IÕm sure you have, too.
It’s a delicate whisper low as sound can go,
but you’ve heard it…
I know.

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