The way she cleans
puts away the day
into lopsided drawers that do not shut
well even on easy days
their contents lost in shuffle and exploit
planes over head, mornful drone, a whine
of grief as they attain height
her hands chapped from slapping herself
back to life
rivets run like zippers down her nails
a light somewhere is extinquished
another turned on, sudden furnace, shadows
vanquished, she has not drunk
all day, for the trembling in her hands
betrays the wait.
Dusk smears sky, oranges hang like
tired bosoms pressed in a woman’s dress
amidst plump leaves, blue-black birds
caw their hunger into the cavernous pitch, cats
with arched tails, disappear potently, eternally
her ankles swell with want, her thyroid
a box of treasure, alight with waiting in chocolate dusk
she dozes in her reverie, business put away
the calm of darkening, a hot bath scalding
dry air with its promise, oils filling her nostrils
pungent and wistful, infusion of sorrow
she remembers when
they lay together without fault
or breakage
the outline of their union
a mandala, with complicated lines leading back to circles
drawn in henna, indigo, cheap car paint, permanent in bare footed sprint
poured into a tattoo gun in the wild hinterlands of Canada
stabbed in little sticcatto for her eternal, sea sick
pleasure.
She lay then, thinking of
burning up
like fireworks
set alight to bloom and bloom till dry of pollen
in empty skies void of furtherment
she wanted to melt
the snow as she walked back
alone and hurting, wounded by her own loathing
a cigarette in her mouth
pressed against clenched, chipped teeth
and you? You were far off like winking lights in sea storm
and you were so far then… gone
without being gone
As is so much of life. Waiting. Closing curtains. Wrapping away disappointed hours
to bed, to claim, to screaming beneath wedged pillows
till the thankless clock in the downstairs anteroom chimes not
and without putting our heads in the oven even once
we are done
Done
Done.
The power and pain in these lines . . .
“stabbed in little sticcatto for her eternal, sea sick
pleasure.
She lay then, thinking of
burning up
like fireworks
set alight to bloom and bloom till dry of pollen
in empty skies void of furtherment”
It hits one in the chest out of nowhere. This is such a superb piece of writing, Candice.
Portrait of a woman slogging through loss and pain as though through swamp mud and bog, or is it snow chest deep chilling the heart?
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
TheFeatheredSleep – A day in a life
Oh, those first three lines – sheer perfection! Such sadness but really loved this piece, Candice. You captured depression and sadness so well. ❤
Candy, My dear friend,
It’s been a year since I retired from work, and now I have two reasons to celebrate! I’ve been reading your poetry lately, but have not commented much. I want you to know I think you are a ground breaking poet. Showing the world the heart of a woman who knows only love, and refuses to let the world get in her way. You show us the struggle and the sometime joy. For me – you let me feel the true love a woman’s heart has, regardless of where it is directed, it is the same – no perhaps more intense – because it is the sacred feminine shining from one to another.
I hope my words encourage you to continue, for they come from my heart, with love, compassion, and understanding to a beautiful soul I am gifted to have met on this journey we call living. May you find all that you are looking for in the year ahead, and may you always be well, and be whole!
Happy Birthday!
Always,
gfs