SurVision Magazine

Desert House


Desert house; sometimes I miss the nights where
The sky stretched out like a hand to cup
The light of the stars, and I tire of watching
This passage, where life seeks to erase life;
I tire of tongues becoming shackles
Seeking to tie breath; nooses of affliction,
Posing as affection; only embracing endings;
These empty harvests, gathering bones
To make
Fresh renditions, as though pulled
From their spare ribs, fashioned from clay
To meet the specification of
Their own limitation, granted;
The same old dance, malignant
Self-romance; broken worship
Where destruction is also
A prayer, still asking
For time to erase
The very first breath
They were given.




Jonathan Douglas Dowdle was born in Nashua, NH and has traveled throughout the US. He currently resides in South Carolina. Previous works have appeared or are appearing in The Opiate, Blue Hour Review, Whimperbang, After The pause, Visitant, Adelaide, Mojave Heart Review, The Big Windows Review, etc.