I once hid in the closet
to be with my being
especially to be
unneeded –
how the sun erases all
the little stars, and
I was contained there,
or was it with pressure
how I filled with unsafe
words in the first life –
would the stones not
have shaken when I
began to yell - would
mom still have died
if she had stayed with me
and I had stayed with her
when she tried to come back
and said she was sorry,
too insincerely – would she
have said I wasn't wrong
to save myself if we
had one more chance
and do I even need it;
anyway, she told me once,
children ruin a person's life
only a handful of years
after she left
and nonetheless I thought
too often I was weak,
made like taffy, of push
and pull, sweet
and ephemeral, once
believing need must
mostly go unmet,
same her sorrow grew;
the cruelty she could
never look at too
closely without panic,
so instead, I tried to wear
my father's blue sweater
when I turned thirteen,
backside-front like
like an armor,
hands hidden in the
too long sleeves
where nobody could
suddenly grasp me, and
she thought I was just
a tomboy, she would say,
when I began to do this
but really I had no idea
how to speak except
in these ways – a little
warm, but smooth
as a mirror
in every frightening
moment that followed –
having like a tree
in a drought drops
the leaves; I pushed
into my own roots
beyond any reach
every joy and win,
same all the little stars
grow bright behind the sun
when the sun does one day, dim.
Sidestep
The day swallowed; in
the sun too long,
burning, I would run,
always behind a
shadow, a butterfly
I think, following
one created small, too –
carried with the wind
when it gusts, wings
assumed by outline
of one who flies.
Either way, the reminder of
fragility, to be made barely,
front a too bright light, colorless
and I know looking back pointless;
she follows whether I look or
do not see, so I found
a place with the trees
once – how I felt held
light as a paper; they reminded
of my father, catching
where made empty by an arm
with too needy of so much
and I un-did a bit,
unfolded at the feet
of every giant – a
once girl, become
heavy with rain
marking outline of roots
upon a blank page kept
in the back pocket,
to be impressed upon
like a map presses,
a way to the third self,
as infinite as the tree
I chose as mother, who
is here always by choice,
my own at least – without
taking of it, only the way
I feel be-side, leaning
upon, just a bit
into a way that would
choose life despite,
feeling like work
has been done/
I can fold along old creases
I felt once my weakness
as if how we begin is
the cause of pain,
and twice a child,
once pressed quiet as
a blanket ironed flat
is made agreeable,
draped upon, to fill gaps
and shaded places
of the one who
made her –
the first rendering,
draping upon every
coldness in the self
like a tree feasts on the
own, fallen leaves.
Morphe
i am where between,
clinging
have misunderstood
the task, traced the lines
of my mother's face
too long –
blooming beneath
a canopy; i, stemmed
from dirt and runoff;
maybe will breaks,
maybe the sun slants
to see me like my father
once did – i, with one hand
who gripped the ledge,
refusing
splitting roots
one here and one
unreachable, and who
with warmth like the night
holds memory of heat,
stays time in its quiet
contemplation
of a dream - have
i misunderstood the task -
or am mercy, bloomed
within a spun cocoon,
stranded in hope.
