I’m fading, lover
day old bread thrown to wild birds
their wink gleaning
our false rise
lover … I’m fading
in and out
washed by time and exposure
old camera, old film
new development
the blink of an eye and we’re
gathering hats for our funeral
see, there’s a swatch within
me
wild and unfettered
the brush of red in the hedgerow
uncatchable
redolent with longing
to be more than yours
greater than this
dusty shelf
empty bed
absence bound in absentia
If you let me, if I’d let myself
I’d mention you in every mouthful
Once, at 15, my father said; Stop talking about that girl, I think you’re obsessed!
I was, without yet acknowledging how deeply these things can go
Forget an arrow, your harnessing of me is a tattoo as inked as the one I already have
If you were a sadist you’d say; Good. Now crawl to me
I suspect I would.
Absence is a devour and every hour a little harder
It’s a tortured song locked inside my chest
Awaiting your key.
You, you, you, the bird who flies without feather
You, you, you, the permanent loan against my sanity.
In restless chamber of night, I wake feverish, imagining
Your cruel hands on me, the cull of my longing to lie
Beside you, above you, beneath you, inside you.
The funny thing is, you don’t try, you never have, it comes naturally
Like walking on hands or juggling, neither of which I ever mastered
As you master me with the flint in your eyes and the quiescence of your tongue
Sharp teeth catching against your damson lip, ragged once in a great while
I have become a collector of moments featuring you
The turn of your full cheek set against certain light, eloping into smile
I want to dose you with a spell that you’ll feel
A tenth, a quarter, a handful.
Even as you are a wild thing and I knew it then, as I know it now
A creature who enjoys the pin cushion of being desired
Each gentle intrusion bringing a little fresh blood
Painless for you
A hammer in my heart.
Underwing, in indigo darkness I envelop
My unspoken entreaty and braid it into my hair
With every twist, pulling tighter, for my darling, wishing is
Often pain.
The therapist leaned back in her chair
light from the window framing the space in-between
“Your mother didn’t leave you now, she left you at six, many years ago
you cannot grief for, what you have never had.”
I thought of this as the clock wound its message of time
always against us, years apart, years unlearning reasons to love.
“What purpose is served in trying to reconcile when you neither know
why she has never loved you, nor what you did to cause this latest eruption
and given the certainty of it, perhaps consider, it’s the other way around, not
whole then broken, but always broken and never fixed.”
I tried to remember the last time I saw my mother. For a moment
I could not recall her face, or what she was wearing that last time
and my chest felt tight with anger at myself until it came and she
was real once more. I reached out in my mind, the way I have been
doing since childhood and tried to touch her, the image as always
grew dim and receded.
“The history as I understand it is, you never resented your mother
for leaving you at six, you defended this action when others condemned her
because you just wanted her to be happy, that was always more important
than your own happiness.”
I nodded dumbly. Silent and unable to articulate any further
response.
“She clearly did not wish to have children, that is no shame upon her,
however she did have a child and she left that child, with little regard for
that child afterward.”
I thought of the brief lunches, the walks down shopping districts, my
wanting to carry her bags even when smaller than her, a protective
fierce desire to do something, anything to win favor. How time seemed
so very, very short in those days, of fleeting moments built on years.
Want being the predominant emotion, desire for, longing, missing,
apart from, that continuation of chasing shadows.
“She had her own life.” I replied. Thinking of one of our last conversations
where she said; “Candy I don’t understand this need you have to be close
to your parents, I was never close to mine, you are an adult, you should
have your own life, when I married my second husband he became
my life. That is how it should be. We should not hold onto our parents like that
it is not healthy.”
As much as it cut me, like that metal string used to carve cheese blocks
I knew a part of me agreed with the part of her
who spoke of practicality rather than ‘duty’ and freedom over
the slavish obligation to ‘feel’ a certain way about people whom
many times we did not have connection with.
I recalled how much she disliked her mother, who was gauche, and
could not spell and only wore trousers and sensible shoes, who laughed
a lot and could sing bawdy songs and may have been unpolished
but also did not really defend her daughter against things
unbidden in the dark.
“My mother saw me as being like her mother, whom she
was not fond of. I was not the sort of daughter she would have chosen
had she had a choice, I had some things going for me, that she was proud
of, like my ability to socialize and make friends, she was always quite
cerebral and found it fascinating. She liked how I was good at gymnastics
and physical things, but my mind was not her mind, I didn’t inherit
her abilities, I was too emotional, too needy.”
“Perhaps it’s human nature to have a favorite child, to see yourself in one
of your children over another, to have preferences, but
if you condemn a child just for being different you are
instilling a life time of approbation and it seems, she was
treated very well by her grandparents who thought highly of her,
even her parents, building an ego and self-confidence, something
she never did for you, instead knocking you down, where you
didn’t have the ability to be so egocentric even if you had
tried.”
I recalled the time she told me she had never forgiven me
for my past crimes, I could not recall what they were, I do not
think she could either, it was more of a sour feeling she had
which I reminded her of, a mistrust, we both have that in
common, an inability to trust anyone, we do not sleep
sitting up, we take a long time to switch off, I found this
similarity comforting, she did not know it existed or the other
things we had in common, there were many.
“If I believed in myself as much as her, I would surely have
gotten a different response. But it’s a self fulfilling prophecy, if
you taint the ground water, the flower never thrives.”
In her garden, she grew roses, her mother grew roses too, one
Birthday I bought her many plants, she said they died because
of the weather, I knew she had not watered them, I did not
know how to reach her or please her. Lord I tried.
“She made it clear to you she did not need you or want you
in her life, she said she had not forgiven you for past trespasses
suggesting the woman who proclaimed not living in the past
held grudges from the past toward her only daughter
quite thoroughly.”
I knew what the death knell was, I knew it was a combination
of speaking out about my grandfather, her father, what he
was guilty of doing, and this, not out of malice or a wish to shame
but a desire to move beyond, to save, to love. It was the worst
idea and despite not being from a place of hate, was taken
as a betrayal, she is a lot like me, she finds it very hard
to overcome betrayal, it stays with her a long time, she
may grow used to pretending she is okay with it, but
at the back of her mind she seethes.
The second death knell was when my father, who
most of his life gave the text book definition of impartial
uninvolved, stood up for me against my mother not
wishing to destroy anyone but due to my illness and seeing
how much I had endured, thinking kicking me when I was
down was not right, he said so, and she never, ever
spoke to either of us again. My father who had lost his
brother decided this was okay because he said, life is too
short, although in truth, we were
all more than that, far more than that, our blood was shared
in a maze of snakes, I wished so much it had not come to
this place of emptiness.
“Your mother knows how to love and protect herself and that is
about it, she may feign love for others, but the truth remains
she is mostly concerned about surviving and whatever it takes
and that does not include you, never has, you are really an
after thought or something to feel guilty for.”
“I didn’t want her to feel guilty.” I said, thinking of
our conversation when she left, I am six, I sit in bed, my toys
are watching in the dark, their glass eyes gleam, she is crying
I have not seen my mother cry but maybe twice, I sense
she is on the edge, I want to help her fly, it doesn’t matter how
I feel it matters only that I save her, I tell her I love her and she
must do what she needs to. I meant it then, I mean it now, and
yet she thinks I am her enemy
which destroys me, every time I think about it, with her
father, the true enemy of us both, but she cannot allow this
truth to exist, as he is her maker, she must venerate his memory
even as he caused this breakage, even as we pay him homage in
our exile, she would choose him over me, the daughter whom
despite her belief otherwise, has never betrayed her, has never
been against her. I hear her say to me; “You must talk badly about me
as you criticize your father to me, you must equally condemn me to
him when you speak, you are two-faced, I have never trusted you.”
Words can be knives, they can be sharper than nightmares
piercing our armor, our very life blood, the sustaining force
we try to hold together with rags and pins, I wanted to scream and
say; “Please do not see me this way, you say I scared you with my
illness and you can not handle me calling upset, or afraid, yet
your husbands ex wife called regularly with just the same, you did not
banish her, and your husbands daughters did nothing of what
I did all those years, yet they are never wrong, how can this
double-standard exist when you know the truth?” My last
words; “I will always be here for you.” Asking her to speak to
me, be in my life, give me nothing but that, and she has
that power to say no, which she uses.
She would not hear because she has her version
although truth has no version only truth
I wish so much she could see how things really were
how beautiful we could be in those moments when
it worked and we laid down any grudge in favor of joy
life after all, is so short, so very, very short.
When you don’t matter to your own mother it is
hard to imagine why you should ever matter to
anyone
this is probably what I have struggled with the most
all of my life, though that is my fault for not being
stronger
feeling I am not worthy and there is no reason anyone should
want me or love me, or not betray me
I try hard, but I fail, again and again
it does not help that nightmares come true, you fear
and so it happens, she walks away, she does not
look back.
I hear her laughing somewhere, I hear her
living her life without me until one of us is gone for good
and then it will be forever too late
“She told me she read a poem I wrote years ago where
I wished that she was dead, but that was not the poem
I wrote, I wrote that I had felt the loss of
her all this time as if she were not alive, because when you lose
someone who is alive, it is worse in some ways than
when they are dead. That is what I meant, but she chose
to see it as my wishing her dead, which is the opposite
of every prayer I have ever had. As a child I would beg
the God I did not believe in, to save my mother
to keep her from harm. And the God I did not believe in
would not reply. Angered maybe that I did not, could not
believe or have faith,
in anything.”
The therapist remained silent, I knew from experience
a mixture of wishing I could just get over my goddamn
childhood and grow the fuck up, or is that me talking? Is
that my mother? I hear her voice often, sometimes she is
singing at a piano in the bar where she met my father
and I am as yet born, I go up to her, I am wearing a black
jacket and it has piping down the sides, I ask her not
to keep the pregnancy; “Take it from me lady, it’s better that
way, if you believe one thing, this is it, don’t have that kid.”
And I have a Southern Drawl which of course I have
never possessed, but how I wish she heard me and
I was never consummated, even as friends decry this, with
platitudes of; “Oh but think of the difference you have had
on this world!” Oh give me a break, none of us really matter
and if we could undo our existence, is that so bad? Is it as
wrong as taking an overdose? No, of course not, so get
over it.
I recall once she said I would
never be as talented as her and I could not write and then
I showed her my novel and she actually liked parts of it, yes
she cannot help condemning and criticizing, it is who she is;
The Editor, someone who knows and has a red pen
the very opposite of her parents, her weak mother who
did not stand up for her, her father who loved her the
wrong way, but what is wrong between blood? A lot I think.
When she liked a part of it, much as she tried to say it was
all irredeemable, I saw the surprise on her face and that
tendency toward hurting me and I felt happier than I ever
had just for a moment, before it was lost, thinking she was
proud of me. “You can’t take that away.” I shout up to
The Fates who have decided we are not to be together
in this life time and since there is no other (life time)
this is it, a separation, every day I live knowing she lives
and we are apart, it feels like someone has a hot iron
they are pressing it against my heart. Maybe it makes me
who I am, someone who cares too much, not everyone’s
cup of tea. Some people hate me on sight. Just like that.
I wonder, did she? Did she? Did she?
She said; Don’t lie about who you are,” but
we have all done it, it’s part of our fantasy, especially
if we hate ourselves, the only choice, else we’d not be able
to do anything and that was my father’s choice, one I
didn’t want to emulate, I had to find a way to function
without excuses, she couldn’t understand, she has a lot of
self faith, I had none, she abhors liars, but she lies too, only
better.
You see, I looked up to my mother
she used to say; “Never have idols, they are unhealthy.” She also
told me not to drink orange or apple juice, I did listen and
now I have no cavities, that is her doing, many things are
her doing, good things along side holes and pits. But
she was her own idol just as she was mine, so really
that’s a moot point, for a little child, watching her mother
who is always out of reach, I hear myself say; “Please. Please
don’t go away, don’t do this again.” Maybe that is
why she did, because she had the power, over me
who else would ask her to stay? Who else wants her?
Or any of us? Who? Foolishly I thought as we grew
older she would need me, that was a really stupid
thought, I berate myself, I never did predict her,
she is quite wild and untamed, a good thing, my heart
has loved her unwaveringly all these years
it has made me who I am in so many ways
good or bad, such as it is, I have grown on
a mixture of pain and loss, like a thin weed
can make life from between two stone slabs
but usually come the first flood or drought
it will be the first to
wither. She said; “You caused yourself to get sick”
I could tell her what the doctors said about smoking
during pregnancy or how my stomach has never been
okay, how can a child cause their own sickness even
before they get sick? No. No. It wasn’t me.
She is rarely sick, she has the fortitude of someone
who would will away sickness, I believe it. I try, I do not
succeed. Many times daily I speak to her in my
head just like when she brought me a marzipan frog
from a trip and I could not eat it, as it would mean
losing something of hers, so I coveted it, and she said;
“that’s so pathetic, you always do that, look now it’s spoiled and you
did not even get to taste it.” I could not tell her
“Oh yes I did, every night, when I looked at it, I thought
of you and hoped you loved me, and this gave me
so much joy, I was literally grown fat with it.”
I wish like
when we were girls
joined at the hip
possessing no cushion
to walk in your stead
same shoes, same size, different spread
yours narrow and delicate
mine bashed and mangled from running
we were used to walking alone in the rain
until we showed up for each other
I recall
how your neck always seemed long even as
neither of us are tall
perhaps the slope of your shoulders or the arch of your clavical
there are illusions and striations even in similars
this we discovered
you could roll a better joint in the dark
and I could stand on my hands and walk – unguided
the carnival rat and the singing mermaid
we grew up on French movies, smoking in the back seats
oblivious to the risk
of feeling everything
and now you are in another country, as am I
two foreign girls without roots trying to get by
I think of you as I think of my reflection and
if I had a sister, if I had a wife, if I had a child
all those emotions and more, embroiled in your fur
like the fox in the dawn
barking sharp and clear
I see you – a red flash – a dart of color against fog
thinking of all the songs we heard and made our own
you possess the key to my memories and my home
as if you were a bee, building a wax nest in a clarinet
you are 17 and your legs remind me of a colt
lean and muscled with no fat, you stand sharp against the ocean
spinning stories of Irish and Welsh, dreams in technicolor
something about your eyes
something in the way you fight without fighting
a strength beneath the quiet
like waves over waves over mouths
I cycled to your flat and we read feminist literature by candle light
those were the times when everything began
and now again we stop and start
clocks without hands without purpose
sometimes it feels like
there’s only the part where we wind and wind up
to no future
and then it begins over
the dance and the memories
unwinding like skirts of sand and ocean
I think of all the places you have seen without me
and how building a life apart we drift like sea weed
I don’t want to lose the link
the key, the way you fit in my heart like
a shell and I can
always hear the sound of waves
in your skirts as you bow your head
and we trip over ourselves to find
that moment of joy
among all the hurt
that’s how you know when you have
an imprint of someone else in your soul
carried on my back, in my chest
like a favorite toy or something deeper
a chant, a eulogy, a suspension of reality
that fusing of one with another over space and creation
when did it begin and when did it become
the stallegmite within me
with your hands encircled
I hear your voice as my own
sister, lover, mother, daughter, woman
the girl with sea in her eyes
I yearn for you
crossing places alone
walking streets without
my heart hurts to think
of us apart, separate, living despite
some of us should be together
I hear you say
yes
like she would say
like the song of songs
and you know, yes,
you have always
known
You, unmaker of peace, wear your hat jauntily to the side
a dandy at appearances
i am incapable of wiping the smudge of regret
away in time, before
everyone sees my imbalance and points with
blunt, corrective finger—
there she is, she’s deranged with grief
surely torn mad
not yet. Maybe sometimes. In the damaged fur, just a bit…
this lingering thing called hurt
a purple tie around my neck and I hide my succulent scabs
behind silk blush, with the covet of a lover
and you? You are the abuser who with
toothpick, flicks detris from your life as
effortlessly as anyone without conscience knows
how to polish their shoes with another man’s shine
sometimes I want to cut your throat
with a very fine Japanese knife, I keep unused
in my emotional closet and other days I want
to use it on myself, such is the pendulate swing
and thumbless gait of grief, a sifting vignette of those in our photo albums
who smile, so convinced of a radiance. The other
day I thought of your determine, growing like wan poppy from souless sidewalk
thin feet, high hips, impossible secrets braided deep into tangled weft of your hair
eyes closed from me, turning in simmering amusement, some unheard world beyond blunder
like a tuning fork set high, your mavidad, a seekers entreaty, the
sea pearls of your hope sewn tight in seemingly empty pockets
if we drowned, you’d die rich and I’d float to gulp the waste of dreams
frothing there among the manifold immensity
it takes just one word, the swallow of truism and fakery, a broken pendant, emptied bequeathment, the ransack of joy
to master stoism and a stomach able to survive the pitch and vinegar of disappointment
in my head I hear your voice, its fine timber cresting Finnish land
and
I am the sot
gathered for wedding and funeral
spun into skin
held close and released
breathe me out
let me loose
where undertow has no purchase
to be weightless and the insubstantial
a feeling, a letter, washed clear of intent
just the impression remaining
something I left behind
in amber
Fear for a child is very different to the adult and exactly the same the child inhabits another decade, in the past, another life before they knew they were who they become the child wets the bed because she misses her mother who is beautiful, ethereal, slender and absent the smell of her still lingers […]
i forget how far away I am
i have always been … too far
she says; Goodbye darling in a voice I know better than my own a voice playing in my inner ear avoir d’autres chats à fouetter distracted after my first mistake pencil in mouth, sucking on lead never good enough or precise in my knit i don't know if it's the last time I'll hear those words what I do know is I'm trying to stop myself crawling out of my skin and I can't say why this has happened this creature who seeks succor at the end of the day to hear your voice letting her know you're okay but they'll never know my child's wrapped need i can set a tone as ships collide and planes come down when literally the sea is on fire and she's no longer coming home These thirty years cyclones making cream of wheat in fields and when I'm at my worst i sound so damn calm
I have written enough about you to fill a slim volume
or maybe two ships
set sail for one of the countries you visit
sending me letters in the day, with marks and fingerprints from all around the world
they would smell
like you, even as that was impossible
and I prepared, as nobody ever can
for the day I would lose you
why not, you ask, appreciate the now, when you are here on earth?
I have, though, we have never spent our lives together or even entwined
I have been saying goodbye all these years
yet it will not be sufficient, it could never be enough
you are more of me, than myself
and I feel you inside even though you are not here now, and gone in the future
loving you has felt like continual loss and little gain
yet I do, more than anything else, for you are that kite, unmoored itself and got away
the thought that comes creeping up as you laugh, as if I had a twin, and yes, she was the one who grew in courage, living full in ways I knew only from books
you have the lifeline of twenty palms and though you could not be a mother, you have always inspired me, like the character from a favorite story
reaching near and never touching, someone marvelous and unable to approach
I live sometimes with my eyes seeing through yours
the waves of your life nearing but never reaching, shore
at some point there will be a day when you are not simply absent and not around the corner
but further then, impossible to mend, hands of time, spent longing
it may be my song to want and not receive, the beauty that is you, and your life as it cleaves
further away, until from a great distance I cannot distinquish, squinting until my eyes hurt and run
I would if I could, but I never have, and I won’t
it is the theatre of our lives to play out
my role is that of thirsty
yours to make ordinary seem
extrodinary
you are the giver of dreams
I shall always wish
for one more day where I see
your figure coming closer through the dusk
perhaps to stay a while, even if we do not touch
I long, in layers, not to lose, what I have, not.
When snowflakes melt
They melt from the outside, in
When people dissolve
They dissolve from the inside, out
You may not even know
That person standing next to you on the bus
Has nothing inside but icing
We are, after all, consummate sleepwalkers
And act, as if we wrap up everything, it will thaw
Even as the emptying of layers reveals it was
Only shadow muffled
Something we used to be
Before it became too hard
And the deception
Feels like a fickle lover, you can’t quit
A lung full of poisoning
A bed without dreamers
Only then the clock reveals
All its missing time
You spent putting bows on hollow boxes, with empty routines and unpolished shoes
When you could have been
Watching snow fall
Like a blanketed mirror of another world
Where you didn’t cut your finger on fears edge
And slip unconscious into hedging your bets
Where you found your long lost mittens and hat
Red against virgin snow, sledding almost vertical
We choose our closed doors with care
Would that we gave such attention to those standing slightly open
Offering a way to cut through resisting ice
Restoring wonderment
Sickness is my latest Paramore
She is more attentive
Less fickle
She sticks like late season honey to the insides of my fever dream
A purple moth with nectarine probiscis
She hears my chest rise and fall
Like carefully tilted chess pieces
Will release balance and find
Greater purchase in uneven defeat
Yet
I remain undefeated
As if by whim
A last horrah
Like a Rosy cheeked girl with retrouse buttocks
Tips her mirth at the crowd
Who in unisen rise
Fat, thin, butter fingered and pianist
To cheer her abandon
As I turn my hot cheeks your way
Facing one another in the skeleton of dawn
I see your need of me
So insate and thundering
And though selfish mayhaps
I entreat
Pick another
I spent much time unraveling
Yet I remain
Stubborn and glassy eyed
A drunk patient of witchery
Somebody without many pockets
Containing Combs and honey
Yet my lips are sweetened by the shape
So simple and elongated
Of one more turn
On this thin ice
I bring
Few coins and less
Courage than a child
But if you release me
I will have
Remembered yet …
How to skate
TheFeatheredSleep 