blink

from mother’s womb
(blink of the eye)
to silent tomb

That moment
Our hands
Touched

Linger

Your eyes
Bashful
Looked away
Stage left

(To what?
Believe me
I've studied
The still-frame
In my mind
Ever-aging)

Then
You pulled away
As did I
Because the world is a cold place
When it's just us two

A mother must be many things
First, she is a vessel
Faring seas not so calm

Then she is a gardener
Shining sun with her smile
Willing flowers out of the dirt
And picking out those weeds
Spreading seeds with a hope
That doesn't wither when the snow falls

Then for some time she is an acrobat
Balancing high in the air
Carrying great weight on her shoulders
Still, the audience will never
See her falter

For a while she may be a critic
Stiffly accepting nothing
But the best

But ultimately she is herself an artist
Chiseling and shaping meticulously
With gentle hands

I know
For I have been
Hauled
And tended to
And carried
And sculpted
With great skill
And love
More abundant
Than the oceans she once sailed

Bleaching
the shirts
stark-white until they hold
your skeleton
like a vice is supposed to.

Feeling pain
and a grip of hope
like biting your fingernails
to the cuticles,
only to see the soft
skin-like crescent underneath your teeth.

Today
in church,
the preacher talked
about God.

God and his ability
to hammer your soul
to it's infinite potential.

Able to hammer you flat
and tired
until he could mould you.

He talked about a clean house,
and I thought about my ***** shirts.

He talked about the pleasure
of the crucifixion,
and I thought about
biting my fingernails too hard
and too often.

in the tauntingly quiet
florescent hospital hum
waiting for a hospice bed
people floated in and out
along with the scents of disinfectant and Salisbury steak
all spoke, in muted tones, words moving
through the liquid silver air of the night
they would squeeze your hand, gently
maybe casting a glance my way
before they walked into the dead vinyl tile halls
to the white squeaking sounds of faceless nurses’ shoes
where the obligated visitors would
breathe a proverbial sigh of relief
for they did not want to be there
at the moment
at the horizon between the slits in your eyes
imagining the ones behind the walls
and across the hills you would never again see
I would be there,
recalling horizons we had seen together
perhaps with you in my arms
before words built walls between us
and years were soaked up like desert rain
after seasons of doubt and drought
I wondered if you would ask me again
or if I would say yes this time
and if that would be enough
to release you
surely, I gave you life
another father and I both did, I suppose
could I take it as well
if you asked me again,
to increase the drowsing drip
of modern Morpheus’ elixir?