Poem

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.”