You
lied.
I stand
at the edge,
seeing you lay there,
far away, small, a broken doll.
How could you fall so low after saying you love me?
Couldn’t you love yourself enough
to love me enough
to choose life?
I know
you
lied.
(after the undated and untitled photograph of a man looking over a railing, by Francesco Verolino)
Summer nights we played at camping
in our own backyard, built a pillowy fortress
inside Dad’s old two-man tent,
stayed up talking into the cricket-filled corners
of long July nights. I was never spooked
until the wee hours, when there came
a clanging of chains, that witchy
old lady next door letting her demonic
dogs out. Once I woke to a shadow
on the canvas, the shape of a face
I imagined was hers, outline
illuminated by lightning
bugs that danced outside, drunk
on darkness. Stricken with terror,
unable to rouse my sister, I unzipped
the door, wiggled my way out, ran
toward the glow of the magic
circle on the back deck, yellow
halo safe from spirits, the exterior light
our parents left on just in case
we ever got scared.
This pull to you, love,
You
You who hurt me
So bad and so deep
A gash that will never heal
You
A demon that haunts me when I sleep
Taunting me with nightmares of memories that have never been mine
You who said you loved me
Then hurt me
You who claimed to care
Then left me
/
Some days
I wish she was still tangled up in me
I want to hurt her
I want to kick her
I want to hit her
I want to watch her cry
I want to hear her beg me to stop
I want to twist the knife and watch her bleed
Shock on her face
“I thought you loved me”, she would say, tears streaming down her face.
“I did”, I would respond.
Confusion would contort her face. “Then why would you do this to me?”
I would laugh, “You did it first.”
What a cathartic thought…
life changer, a stroke
now I have aphasia
means I form spinning
words, loopy kaleidoscope
made-up words seeking balance
The stories weave through the fire
Creating shadows that stretch toward
The listeners who huddle and peer into the
Waiting darkness hoping for a glimpse of home.
The storyteller’s voice rasps the voice of a giant
Hungering for a taste of blood and of the
Wolf waiting at Grandmother’s house
For an unwary girl who tries to get past
The ogre that blocks the bridge that leads to home.
The listeners lean towards the safety of each other
As the words give form to the monsters that hide
Just beyond the light that escapes from the fire
Except for the girl who sits apart with her back to the
Warmth and gazes into the soft darkness towards home.
There is no fear of the shadows that lie out there.
She has already met the wolf, the giant has already
Spilt her blood and she has vanquished the ogre that was
Waiting for her on the bridge that leads to home.
You can cry into the soupbeans, they don’t mind,
making friends with onions has its advantages.
Dice it up, if you’re so inclined,
the coffee’s hot and full of adages,
making friends with onions has its advantages,
the greens are spicy today and agree,
the coffee’s hot and full of adages,
sometimes what you need’s what you can’t see.
The green’s are spicy today and agree
everyone who comes to the table in good faith should grab a plate,
sometimes what you need’s what you can’t see–
like a cure, or pain abating and lifting great weight.
Everyone who comes to the table in good faith should grab a plate,
the sweet tea’s in a listening mood and soothes the soul,
like a cure, or pain abating and lifting great weight.
Let us gather our sorrows with our joys and share the bowl,
the sweet tea’s in a listening mood and soothes the soul.
Empathy tastes like cornbread and stewed tomatoes,
let us gather our sorrows with our joys and share the bowl,
let us drink the present with gusto though never lacking woes.
Empathy tastes like cornbread and stewed tomatoes,
dice it up if you’re so inclined,
let us drink the present with gusto though never lacking woes,
you can cry into the soupbeans, they don’t mind.
Sometimes
I show up
so absolutely lovefilled
I show up
and listen
And I hear….
an absence of
Love
Love is pouring out of me
How is it not pouring out of everything?
Why does this feel…
so lonely?
And so in connection
to the center of everything?
Maybe what sounds
like absence
Is actually
presence
Maybe, I’m
learning to hear
Maybe love-filled
means hearing things
A different way
I want to hear the whole world
All over again
