Candy floss and a visit to the arcade:
That's all it took to bring things back an hour
to the moment before a missed step.
Panic, pandemonium, a parallel universe
is what I came to; Landed, rag-dolled on a weather-worn,
rice field imitation rock. What I would give to see myself
From the edge. To see the angles my body chose
while I was away bringing my dearest to my side.
First I collected my sister with a scream that belongs
Only in stories that deal with grief: Guttural.
Come to think of it, that acrid ancestral call didn't belong to me.
I wasn't the one who pricked her from her periwinkles
And guided her over the barnacles to become a silhouette.
It wasn't me who dragged the adrenaline-fueled arms and legs
of an undressed, distressed father from his bed, through the
Haze of his own thoughts: a descent he wont soon forget.
I wasn't there. The things I describe are born of a situation
I have spent fifteen years rebuilding; I'm ashamed to say
I missed it. I never felt the chaotic shift of the wind and was never
able to expect the worst because I was too enthralled with her face.
It was my sole focus as I lay down.
I watched intently - in slow motion - distortion explode into
her cheeks, tearing her mouth to the seams; scared eyes
enveloping lids and unwavering, taking me all in.
I have no doubt she remembers the moment as well as i do,
Probably more so, for she experienced the backwash.
She was certainly shown the quickest way down.
I remember that it was beautiful that day:
A real Irish-sunburn peak in Liscannor Bay.
I also remember walking down the garden
To the cliff stenciled on the back of my hand
with the cheerful arrogance only an eight year old
can get away with.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
Candy floss and a visit to the arcade:
That's all it took to bring things back an hour
to the moment before a missed step.
Panic, pandemonium, a parallel universe
is what I came to; Landed, rag-dolled on a weather-worn,
rice field imitation rock. What I would give to see myself
From the edge. To see the angles my body chose
while I was away bringing my dearest to my side.
First I collected my sister with a scream that belongs
Only in stories that deal with grief: Guttural.
Come to think of it, that acrid ancestral call didn't belong to me.
I wasn't the one who pricked her from her periwinkles
And guided her over the barnacles to become a silhouette.
It wasn't me who dragged the adrenaline-fueled arms and legs
of an undressed, distressed father from his bed, through the
Haze of his own thoughts: a descent he wont soon forget.
I wasn't there. The things I describe are born of a situation
I have spent fifteen years rebuilding; I'm ashamed to say
I missed it. I never felt the chaotic shift of the wind and was never
able to expect the worst because I was too enthralled with her face.
It was my sole focus as I lay down.
I watched intently - in slow motion - distortion explode into
her cheeks, tearing her mouth to the seams; scared eyes
enveloping lids and unwavering, taking me all in.
I have no doubt she remembers the moment as well as i do,
Probably more so, for she experienced the backwash.
She was certainly shown the quickest way down.
I remember that it was beautiful that day:
A real Irish-sunburn peak in Liscannor Bay.
I also remember walking down the garden
To the cliff stenciled on the back of my hand
with the cheerful arrogance only an eight year old
can get away with.
.
When i was young, I experienced real irony for the first time but didn't quite know it. While showing my aunt, along with my little cousin the safest, easiest, quickest way down a cliff, i fell from it. This is my attempted recollection of events.
.
