Here I wait among the dead
within the shadows, seldom seen
with mind as silent as the grave
a nightmare tucked within a dream.

Though my soul be scarred and flayed
by secrets deep and wounded thighs
There sits a withered hope within
to be the girl from days gone by.

You will not see my shadow pass
the gate of mournings eerie dark
Nor hear my voice among the reeds
that grow above my silenced heart
No fondest kiss to furrowed brow
to quell the torment of your making
for you have left me here alone
to sleep the sleep that knows no waking.

it takes us years
to find out how our body works
what it can feel, smell, touch, see, hear
how we can move its limbs
what hurts it, what makes it feel  good

more years are spent
discovering the fathoms of our soul
from murky depths to lofty heights
the scales of feelings, pain, excitement
     love, joy, jealousy, despair,
all our nuanced sensitivities

then we explore
the layers of our mind’s infinite potential
its constant work of making sense
    from the reports of all our senses
so we believe we understand our worlds,
imagine new ones, phantasize about the old

when after all these years
we harbor some illusion
our long experience might be enough
     to straighten all confusion
chances are good we recognize
that all we are is knowledge-misers

we have grown old, but not much wiser

In the new cities around
Full of cherry blossom trees
Strangers are like friends

and then
one day
my sky
really did fall
and life carried on
without
me
but eventually
i was helped up
slowly
dusted myself off
and i even learned
to smile
again

Before he retired –
aged sixty-two –
life was a meaningful
calling for her.

Not over-radical,
more gentle and
secular – but post-
suffrage.

Her children had
left the nest, and
the story of Esther
came to mind.

She writes poetry
and helps others
less fortunate than
she is.

He puts food on the
table, and she gives
meaning to the
marital vows.

She never wanted
to emulate Steinem
or Millett – maybe
Eleanor Roosevelt.

She neither wears
a bra nor burns one
– competition only a
four-syllable word.

A day in her life is
one hand on the soup
kettle, the other on
a protest sign.

One week a month
she volunteers
at a church shelter
for the homeless.

One day a week
she picks up the
mail for a neighbor
who is bed-ridden.

When night time
comes and she lies
in bed, he massages
her feet in silence.

She hasn’t retired –
never will – not in the
shadows of the night
nor morning’s shine.

© Lewis Bosworth, 9/16