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.
Tag: ptsd
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-second iteration of, “Surfside”
A stone in the sand
dents me:
at the edge of frailty,
I am of parts, of
the jagged coast
when she dies –
a tide, and every
new line in the sand,
of some certainty
inclined to be redrawn.
I wonder, was it the
same for her, my mother,
who went back despite
where waters were warm,
where the ocean kept
a song of us –
the one she loved.
She tried, more than
many will need
having, from cruelty,
a type of softness built
designed to enchant,
and beneath that a knife
I sensed most as she slept
not knowing where to step;
I felt lost without her.
Worse, was the forced inattention
to laugh when she would laugh,
to stay silent unless
in agreement – a
perfect pet,
and so, I existed in fable,
made by nature one
who will test
where is it that I end
and the world begins,
again and again
until like hard metal
snaps made off-center,
I am timeless: in pieces,
become every stone once
left in places I marked -
‘here is a feeling
of freedom,’ being
ravenous for sky,
the likes of craving
for fire in a long snow,
of craving her.
I bump against, time
and again,
my artifacts of freedom,
curving the edges
of my created, heart
denting them willingly,
to let as close as is possible
once dreams that were my own
and to remember, of
love and loving,
always authenticity, when I am
shaped, first, as I was made,
relentlessly malleable:
the needed form,
the remedy.
Misfit
The man wants you easy,
knocking on the wall
for permission
but lightly, not in need
with that spark –
an anger of too fast words
better held without panic
of long eyes and
their fragile warning,
just like the moon, head
held bowed to the sun
is the owed, owned light
from a distance
hunted on every horizon;
those, back turned and running
are a reflection of another
until quiet,
looking upon the face
of one who demanded
what they will not:
a monster, a victim –
and upon the wall slam
the crumbling heart
knocking loudly on the long night
with dreams made vivid
too struck of love,
indelible by necessity:
the own, owned warmth of self
who once gathering flowers
within a cage grew rich
with seeds
now slipping, or falling,
between every crack
having found no door
to ask entrance
grown uncontainable.
skipping stones 