altered
one
time
a
version
of
me
fell
deep
into
the
inside
of
the
interiority
of
a
poem.
the
version
of
me
before
that
fall
has
yet
to
be
sighted
again.
The rain
Keeps falling on
Me, until eventually
It becomes larger then the Pacific
I am drowning
Stuck without a lifevest
Unable to swim
Will you throw me a preserver
Or will you let me
Doggy paddle
And leave me
Gasping for breath
Breathe in
Breathe out
Commiting to
My final breath
Kept
your hair in the brush
your recorded voice
your hand written letter
your perfume scented dress
Have for you
a chamber in my heart
a room in my brain
a memory I can’t forget
a fashion sense
What I miss
a mother that models
a grandmother that nurtures
a great grandmother that guides
an aunt that assists
You can’t control the pain.
You can only control your response to it.
It’s okay to not be superhuman.
It’s okay to rest.
You’re doing your best.
This is only a season.
Things will get better.
Everything that needs to get done
will get done.
Rest your mind as well as your body.
We will try again tomorrow.
Things will get better.
I love you.
For Jennifer
Her poem enjoyed a flight
to the far side of the moon
where it will remain through eons,
cradled in technological artistry.
On clear nights, she looks
at the distant orb, envisions
her words precisely penned,
savors a moment of satisfaction,
then turns her eyes towards Mars.
self impose exile
Tears catch attention, reflecting away lightness.
Questions stated that I must respond to:
Would I like some space?
Would I like food or water?
Would I like a hug?
Comfort in the physical sense,
Emotionally abandoned.
