Here is a poem I wrote back in July 2013, I'm still working on it but I just felt like sharing.
BROKEN
I break slow, break in, break apart ,wave on
sand, summer full of our sweat, Bach
swell of cello my longing, numbed and real.
I’m living in a bed, an overgrown garden,
some accidental tomato plant in the
weeds with prickers, sting my skin make me bleed .
Look out your window and up, we’re dying and you know it,
salt stains my clothes and this box I’ve created, unfolding.
They sent me flowers to make me smile, but they suffocated
and died. Yellow
flowers on the windowsill, sucking air, and just some
daisies, I’ve never planted
we’re drying up, smiling, smothered in the heat of the sun
this lead, my lungs, your breath, she flew away , some burst
cocoon,
My head,these words, as if someone might read my mind
and judge it for, lack of
originality or proper form or some other
bullshit. I don’t even know what is what, anymore.
Look at these animals,
accepting loss, accepting life, in
a way
I can never grasp. Falling back onto some green grass pier
of
sound, embracing nothing, empty,
aching silent seasons.
I have no baby to hold and I’m not sorry.
Let me sit back , read some Keats,
just a little Coleridge and Frost,
let it pour from my fingertips
love is all, all is love.
Pulling words
out of heads onto the page broader, expanding. how your
lungs
stole your breaths.
Red zinnias on a table for you, crawling with spiders, some
divine statement on the status of
living.
See that pool of sunlight, let me be absorbed
into it and live and stay. See the leaves
crisp bent-ending, let me be a leaf.
I entered your world on a Thursday, so
on a Thursday you left mine. Storm outside
storm within. We waited with candles, at
the ready, for the dark.
I don’t know.
Tried to call you one day, but you’re slipping away,
the physical presence, haunted absence,
though you’re sitting in a papier mache
urn on my desk, next to books, haphazard,
stacked high. Did I say goodbye?
No one grows up perfect, no one grows up whole.
We’re raw inside just some meat on bones we flow
and are gone. I read the word cancer everywhere.
She knows. Wherever she is now, in the
ether of the unseen above me or
below, god, I hope she knows. Does she see
me and say, “look at my daughter, all
her dreams will come true.”
