Marrow
Sometimes at
night I can still
smell the diesel
fuel burning and
the dirt cut fresh
open, when I lay
my head on the
pillow. That deep
earth and metal
so strong it
streaks across
my tongue, and
I lick my lips as
I close my eyes.
In the darkest of corners,
a tiny yellow flame dances.
It yearns to leap
from its fragile wick
and singe the shadow…
aches to spread
the searing heat
which melts the wax
but leaves no trace
in the room cooled by indifference.
Cursed to burn each lonely night,
lit by a secret match,
its lonely unheeded glow
burns yet.
Steady.
Ready.
The thing that is what a word says can be shy.
There’s one word that when it’s name is spoken hides.
It casts no shadow. Ghost inside a room.
It washes the Masters feet, lost to all pride.
The busyness of love is like a balm,
relaxing the ache of muscles tensed to win.
She said it wasn’t her, it was the song
that flowed out from all life and let me in.
A promise or a curse before a mirror
defeats itself before it is a lie.
Rage at a wrong or holding fast to fear
is more the enemy when it whispers “Why?”
When I am silent, listening in my prayers,
the angel who watches my steps can catch her breath.
The child who took my apple knows I’m wise.
This moment no longer hurries toward its death.
My vice became my addiction.
The thrill of nicotine in my bloodstream
I’m becoming my mother, a nervous wreck only calmed by Marlboro reds.
I don’t resent it, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and history repeats itself and I’m not angry that I’ve became a reflection.
I’ve alowed a habit to turn into a crutch.
One I lean so heavily upon.
I know it will be the end of me.
And tonight, while I’m alone and thinking, watching as smoke rings rise to the ceiling
I realize I’m not afraid of death or what comes after it.
These cigarettes are going to help me answer all my questions.
When I was a girl I daydreamed
about the one who would become
Mine
I loved to imagine what it would feel like
locking eyes from across a crowded room
everything else fades away
until there was only us
at last
Like that scene in the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice
where Elizabeth and Darcy finally dance
Contemptuously gliding past each other,
trading quips
barely touching
the passion palpable
I was enthralled
my 14 year old heart beat wildly
longing to be hungered for
like that
But I just rewatched that clip
eager to be swept up
and now it seems so transparent
the suspicion and disdain are masks
for their heartache and fear
armor and ammunition
I recognize those masks
8 years of marriage and we have a vast collection
hard looks
weary sighs
pointed, accusatory glares
I wonder why I couldn’t see the hardness
back then
Maybe it seemed romantic to look past it
to the possibilities
to the tidy ending
Now I see the romance in our hard won realities
the walls of our stubborn ways
the wounds that even time and therapy cannot fully heal
We hurt each other over and over
intentionally, carelessly, cluelessly
And yet – marriage is so much more than just a masquerade
It continues long after the exchange of rough glares
when the guests are gone
and we are alone
known
people undone
There I find the embrace of my beloved
Masks chipped away
free to be unfinished
This brain this day is scorpions waiting
-like a vine-covered spike pit
-like a needle in a handful of rosary peas
-like a “Bless your heart”
to leap,
from my unwilling mouth, under their own command
I think of you every day, but I rarely speak about you. I avoid it if I can. It hurts too much. Sometimes, it’s awkward. Embarassing. I miss you and you miss me, but neither one of us will do anything about it. I could call you, but I won’t. Too much anxiety. I never know what to expect from you, but it usually ends in disappointment. I wish I had happier things to write about you, like I used to. I hope things change before it’s too late. I miss you too much.
a shadow in the night that isn’t yours, call to it. Weigh the effort and reward. The worst you can get is no answer, or a ghostly sorry, wrong house. The best would be to hear your mother’s voice, your father’s or a loved one claimed by time: Come to comfort in your sorrow, returned to join in your rejoicing. Speak with them a while, recall the things you still love because they did. And in the morning, seek for something left behind to reassure you didn’t dream them: A scent, a picture straightened or heart traced in a spot of dust you missed, perhaps a single slice of someone’s favorite rye.
you hide yourself so deep in
third person sometimes
even you don’t
recognize you
are writing
about
your
self
