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iacio
held to my chest
~ my heart ~
its supple leather
nearly 40 years old now;
I’ve never failed
to dutifully remove
the filth of my fingers
from it’s deep red cover,
stained as I furiously spilled
everything.
a plain-skinned journal
with biblically-thin pages,
gilding on 3 edges;
its paper is crisp and silky
fresh buttery apples in the fall
Exquisite.
the only gift
my mother ever thought
to give me
that allowed me
to feel known;
she bought it from
a local antique shop,
placing it gingerly
in my small, upturned hands
as if she might change her mind
I fight the urge to grab it
and run
and
I pray to the God
I’m not sure I believe in
and beg him
to suspend time
so that I can feel this way, always
cared for
I asked her what I should write
you’ll know
but, being full of questions
as I have always been,
I asked her how I would know
you’ll just know
exasperated,
she sent me away;
I’d gotten my damn book
but overstayed my welcome,
as I could never resist doing
I felt greedy
and the moment is gone,
just like that
I tried ridding myself
of the beloved, awful thing
a thousand times,
always feeling the pull
of my yearning;
I couldn’t stomp it down
in time to be free
of its burden ~
I love to hold it so much
I hate it even more
it seemed fitting
to record this transition
from my mother’s daughter
to
to
well, that’s still being worked out
one goddamn teaspoon
at a time, ain’t it?
pages, now wrinkled
embossed with dried ink
and every secret
I never even told myself;
it makes the most
pleasant crackle
as I peel each page
slowly, savoring the sound
and read again
about the little girl
who couldn’t believe
she was worthy
of Real. Love.
I weep for her
not that she’s gone ~
she’s my responsibility now,
there are no more delusions
left between us two
smoothing her hair,
I sing softly against her ear
until she sighs,
content
it feels like she trusts me
a little more these days
packing up a lifetime
lived to this moment ~
this beautiful, tragic
moment,
I suddenly wonder
what I’m supposed to do
with this accounting
of half a person
running wild
between
onion-peel layers;
her path
from the pit
of letting everyone else
tell her who she was
for entirely too long
forty-six years too long,
in fact
I see my mother
as I want to, now
her untamed grey wolf,
cursed with the madness
of Blackfeet women,
I’ve never met fiercer;
I know her pain
and how fucking hard it is
not to kill everything you love
when the beast gets hungry
forgiveness is a balm
even if she doesn’t want it
I’m not bound to the wheel ~
not anymore;
there are reminders here,
in the book of my crossing ~
those my healthiest Self & I
have negotiated hard
to agree upon
I gingerly place it
in the large, open box
as if I might change my mind
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