I first remembered years ago,
At twenty-something,
Speeding along in a 240Z
With my father.
Apropos of nothing,
I suddenly remembered it all,
The pain, fear, chases
And flights up stairs,
Only to have her catch me,
And feel the pummeling fists
Like a mad horse’s hooves,
Treading me down.
Back in the present,
My father was admiring trees
As we buzzed past them,
Unaware of the storm beside him.
She wore him down too
In a different way,
With constant denigration.
Over the years I watched
As he shrank way to
A painful, infested brain.
Unlike me, he had no defense,
Loving her as he still did.
It was as if he chose cancer
instead of anger or rebellion.
I had raged against her
And stood tall from childhood
To the now, when thunderheads
Rose from me above her.
Long ago, she had been
The random bolts from the blue,
Causing pain but not killing.
Now I am the storm,
Gathering over years,
Sweeping up heat and vapor
Sending and receiving energy.
The lightning bolts are truth
And their pain is admission,
Though never bringing remorse.
I am the storm warning her to run,
While knowing that she never will.

Edited October 2, 2021

A Beautiful and A Bitter Shroud

When I was little, I found a magic box,
tucked under the eaves where
we were told not to go.
Something compelling about the
forbidden, triangular space,
sealed off by lath and plaster,
made me resolved, beyond curious.
I kicked and pulled until plaster shattered
and wood cracked, delightfully.
The large box was filled
with silk, organza and tulle,
the proud-worn gowns
of my mother's college days.
At those ***** she danced
in them, hair coiled up
and earrings sparkling.
It was not about the men, I knew,
but her need to be admired.
I don't recall a punishment
for opening the box
but she relented and allowed
my sister and I to put on
her finery and pretend.
We wrapped them round us
and twirled to imaginary waltzes,
stepping on long hems so many times
that  the gowns all came undone.
The rags were put away
and the room sealed up.
In my youth I recall but a few
times Mother gave in
and let us be children
or fairy princesses for a while.
Now she is old and finally
trying to wrap me in her shroud,
to make resentment drag me down
and envy of me, crippled with self-hate.
But that no longer works
and I tell her, finally grown
that this is not allowed.
I summon up pity and vague sympathy,
even if love left long ago.
I tell myself that
everyone dies alone.

Golden

Two blocks away
between the houses
the sunset smolders golden
through an oak

Cold creeps behind it

I keep it closed and locked,
In an imaginary, leather binding,
With its many pages compressed,
So that memories far apart
Are easier to retrieve,
Like scooping pearls
and shells on the sand.
There are stories of great adventure,
Tiny incidents like crystals
Shivering in the sun.
Lovers I knew in ancient times
Sleep among the pages
But come to life as I read,
My eyes caressing them as
My hands once did their skin.
Colors of eyes and hair remembered
Leap to paint the air around me:
Yellow sunlight and bodies moving,
Both electric and languid
In tangled sheets or long grass
After passion passed.
Some flashed like fireworks,
But others burned long and slow,
Not ready to love, nor to let go.
Smiles across a playing field,
Surprise midnight visits on holidays,
Costumed for Halloween with tiny stars
That shimmered on the stairs next morning,
Or inebriate feasts on the Fourth of July,
Tanned in the water and soothed at night.
There are short liaisons with friends
And long affairs, living with lovers,
Imagining it lasting forever
And battling the serious and inane.
Thinking everything will say the same.
And underlining all these times
Is the solidity of just one true love.

Finished November 14, 2021