Iím not sure which came first:
pang of familiar finality, or
numb moments of calamity.
Knotted pull and tug, beneath
offerings of benign serenity.
Although, the path was clear
he was gone before I got there.
I still remember the vacant eyes
piece of my heart clenched in his fist.
There was no room in this house
crowded by Indians, Spanish and Jews
crawling the corridors, displaced, lost.
If itís not your mother holding a silver spoon
then another woman, gnawing at roots
who lost her footing and her shoe.
Tell me which way doors swing
no closure to hope and fear
re-blooming regrets with fading steps
embracing strangers wandering in.
We have been here before
fate waned to howling gales
Do you recall?
Narcissi by threshold
broken bricks on Kentucky stone
stairway to the attic, cobwebs in our hair
climbed steps, creak..creak..creak
counting one by one, like a hymn
This is the place we called home
origami musings in a paper fold.
Shred anthology with peeled paint
scatter confetti on blades of grass
young and wild
dare steeped, world a stage
beauty amiss in a grain.
Strike the hearth with thunder and light
feeding hunger; life & love
thick with marrow, passions alight.
I heard you whisper in my ear
it was beautiful (I think)
Just like I imagined it to be
perhaps I invented you
perhaps youíre not real..
Hush, my love..not so loud
our unborn children will wake at dawn
shut the windows, bolt the doors
our brilliance shines
today, not tomorrow.
The dream ended before it began.
I knelt by the Narcissi
which had bloomed early this year
my hands in the rich soil
toiling, carved cocooned with trust.
I felt you behind me
with warm May breeze
lifting my hair, falling on my ears
dashed to deathís door
this lifetime too short
tending bouquet of mistakes
a distance of a grain.
I think I birthed you
I think you were real
In a house on sticks.
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