hunger strike
eating nothing
but these hours
that devour
and the
black hole distance
between full
and fortified
in the night sky
lost eye
feast
of raw
subsistence
…
eating nothing
but these hours
that devour
and the
black hole distance
between full
and fortified
in the night sky
lost eye
feast
of raw
subsistence
…
scarred scared and disrepaired
the tagline of last soldiers
loss holders
heart boulders
we are the collection
of collectors
gathering bones and
burying stones
building cairns
in bare memory
corners
and backing away
ever so gently
despite the premise promise
of tumble
and tremor
. . .
it’s dawn
and the mockingbird
is spinning
suddenly i want
to fly again
straight off the ends
of this square peg earth
into the winding path
of freedom’s glee
burrow deep into the heart
of day-blind skunk
and know the strength
that builds red bricks
from beasts of prey
ripple down
across the shoulder
of this rolled-boulder current
pounded smooth against
a blanket of doused flame
no longer
broken
but
broken open
open
and mirrored
plain
yet again
i climbed a mountain to return a heart-shaped rock,
walked a forest and forgave the past of everything,
broke a leg and knitted living back together,
skirted vulture cliffs and jumped only with my smile,
buried crack-lipped hallelujahs beneath the twisted tree of pain
it’s morning
and the mockingbird
is singing
. . . . .
in that hole in my heart
(you know the one)
left behind in the wake
of a wave
core scoured clean
scored by sand
and detritus
scars scratched
into every blind surface
echo etchings
scratched
into permanent
reminder
water always runs
to the lost lowest point
filling crack and crevice
with surface reflection
magnifying truth
and creating mirage
in the desert
of dutiful
destruction
the way it all shifts
when you learn
to walk through
rather than running
astray
the way trust
is a shell
balanced on backs
until we outgrow
the idea
the way a heart
always knows
its measure of weight
and its own
constellation of scars
the way hope
is not hollow
and just holding on
is more fragile
than strength to let go
.
.
i’ve got all these pieces
shard sharp and jagged edged
heart blood dark
and silence hole
splayed across
this worn wood floor
tracing steps and trapped pretension
as it all rolls uphill
sideways
mirror mirror
pasted smile
fallen glimpses in the corner of reflection
shape shifting
loose oil carnage
and the dream I had
before
our room filled with smoke
my mind-body
shaking us both awake
certain there was fire
i still see the haze each midnight
floating right
above the quilt
i bought
to shelter the you
(or me)
i can never quite
remember
.
the year I became
an old woman
was the same year
the snows never came
the same year
your heartless mirror
turned my skin truth-brittle
the same year
black birds refused to fly
and i remembered
(at long last)
how to cry
heart and hands
bent and broken
scrabble-holding
weightless forest
neither you
nor i
but the (w)hole
damn mess
the same year
water taught me
how to whisper
the same year
i spat bitterness
back to center
washed myself clean
the same year
as those that marched
in pattern-dashes
of before
you always leaving
me always loving
someone
never there
and only trees
know the last
ancient riddle
bearing witness to the scars
of hollow hearts
still standing
(always standing)
shedding leaves
like tears
at the threat
of yet another
dark-buried
bold-cold
winter
. . .
.
.
listen to my reading of as it turns out below:
none of us are free
we all come at great cost
to ourselves
to others
to this bold green earth
to those we love
and those we hate
to those
we cannot know
own yourself
pay the price of reflection
add loose change
to the plate of collection
pick up your actions
hold them high
look deeper
examine
have the good guts
to stare yourself
in the eye
have the true grace
to accept
all consequences
own yourself
none of us
are free
the sun is shining just now, but it’s so cold.
the snow is glittering with that false, enticing promise.
beautiful to look at, brutal to hold.
and now i’m thinking of you again.
it’s a vicious circle-cycle.
life and loss and the truth of living.
survival of the fittest.
survival.
of.
we all have our own sky.
the second poplar tree in the front yard is dying.
it lost its mate a few years back, and being the romantic that i am, when it started dying from the top down, i decided it must have a broken heart. ha. then again, perhaps i’m right.
i have to figure out what to do about it this year, how to afford to cut it down, if i can bear to cut it down, the hole it will leave in my view (and my heart) when it is gone. how much i will miss the sound of poplar leaves rustling through the darkest hours of long summer nights.
it will mark another ending, in this winter filled with endings i have not yet learned to process. all part of the same era, the same time-vine of hope. i planted those two poplars when i first started my garden. i planted my garden when i first started my marriage.
and now i am surrounded by empty spaces, dying graces, loaded places.
there is so much to say and nothing to be told.
so much to grieve and nothing real to bury.
so much to carry and nothing left to hold.
my truth is a dark burden, and in the silent hours of night, i sit by my window and watch those bare dead branches pierce the sky.
the gap its absence will leave on my horizon is too difficult to consider just now.
i’ll deal with it this summer.
. . .
there’s another tree in my front yard, a young river birch with its own painful story.
last summer, i actually thought about killing it. of course, i didn’t. i couldn’t. i wouldn’t.
after that, i thought about moving it, to somewhere out of sight from that same window.
i didn’t do that, either.
i decided, in the end, to watch it grow. it has three trunks. i have three children, three grandbabies. we all have roots here.
it doesn’t even begin to fill the sky yet, or close the hole in my horizon, but i’ve re-framed its significance in the window of my existence.
one day, it will offer shade to this tiny house still filled with love. in the fall, i’ll watch yellow leaves drop down through the night and think how often we all begin again. each morning, each month, each year.
the seasons have always marked my cadence.
i’m looking forward to the spring.