Things fall apart.
my mother will be the first to go.
Stretched between school, a stubborn husband,
distance, and a daughter she believes is dying,
and the ever present thought
that she will never be good enough.
Taught as drum leather, she shudders,
Wracked and rent by memories of lost children
and protruding ribs.
I awoke to her crying in the next room this morning.
She greeted me with feigned happiness, but
red eyes stared truthfully back.
"I'm okay," she murmured.
"Bullshit," I said softly.
She clung to me.
I felt the burden shift on her shoulders.
her over sized heart beat to pulp,
it's bloody remnants clinging to her dripping sleeve.
The people she tried to hold together,
slipping through her fingers
like sand-- as her brittle bones break.
Things fall apart.
And I wish I knew how
to put them together again.
I say I'm not ready,
they say you never really are,
that at some point, you blunder into the melee
knock your shins and elbows on things,
and your knees come up bloody,
your palms raw,
but the blows induce growth,
and you sprout branches
from the tree of knowledge
of good, and of evil.
It as thought i am paused on the brink
and they are counting,
like they do
before they set a broken bone,
and they pull, shove, on two.
I think I'm most frightened
I'll never get my footing.
I am queen of afterthoughts,
rarely of fore.
Especially not in matters of hearts.
I am dry heaving sighs,
with leaden guilt
and what ifs.
I'm drowning in what ifs.
the heart is gasping-- let it gasp.
Let the lungs collapse
the black water rush in.
it would be easier.
oh so much easier,
to just leave now.
There is no strength here, anymore,
lines scribbled within lines
what I thought is not what I thought
If I indeed thought at all.
Wake me up
when it's all over.
There is a pain—so utter—
It swallows substance up—
Then covers the Abyss with Trance—
So Memory can step
As one within a Swoon—
Goes safely—where an open eye—
Would drop Him—Bone by Bone.
I want you to know
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
if each day,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine