Kissing phantoms

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I saved an eyelash of yours

grew it from seed in a

blue-bottle

at first the greenhouse huffed and curdled

not used to cultivating such delicate wings

till I put you beneath my mattress

soggy with tears morning dew

you see, I had become

a cocoon again

needing no more than

one drop of rain on my

sewn together eyelids

scalded from rubbing

you see, I had thrifted

the parts of me that had

touched you the most

so I did not have to be reminded

why my hands stayed trembling

on countertops or reached

at night into marjoram dark

why my lips were chaffed and sore

from kissing phantoms

better then, to return to wax

bury the hatchet

and ones history

in somnolent earth

smelling of tea bags and bird feathers

ear wigs and lady bird nail polish

your smile

caught winking through amber sun

your convex toes

wriggling at the end of bed sheets

like crocus pushing up

the paving stones of my new city

it will speak a different language

contain no source for tears

no receptacle for self-harm

the last newspaper says

she left to parts unknown

wide indigo wings catching

cusp of moon as

clouds colored by grief’s insistence

curdle against wan light

mist abounding like a girl

carrying her skirts through water

involuntary sound of loss despite

washing your hands repeatedly

smoothing down the shards of

wakefulness

something grows silently

in you and cannot

be reborn

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Breathing

It’s just a story we tell ourselves

We will be well

And even Gods forged of longing, cannot always save our plea for preservation

And please, some peace

For the weary, are not the old

They are the ones who know the sear of unwanted pain

An ache rising like wave again, merciless in return

The loss of dreams comes softly as snow

We dream ourselves complete

Waking unable to breathe

This sheltering land sometimes permits tornadoes

When all around shakes, we are battered and bruised

And because we still stand, others never witness, the deep sink of our soul

Or indeed, that dark place we go

When night only burdens with unseen fear

A temperature, a loss of balance, this unknowing doctors touch, with gloved hand

As we find ourselves, subject to midnight

We, who have never been this person

Arising, as if we could separate and escape, inevitable places

Was it really me? Who gasped for breath and cried out to spirits never tested?

As has always been for each life line

Thinking invulnerable, tugged back to truth

All of us wear a harness, all of us hold an allotment

It is the wicked mirth of terror when first we gaze into our future and see the end

No amount of protest will stave

But maybe, maybe with light and courage

With nothing more than salved persistence

We can hold back that day and spend one more

Breathing

Whole

degas-woman-at-the-window-007The loon sang out of season

and she bed her reason

wetting sheets with her angst

for who among the outside world

enfolded her as you had?

they say it takes just a moment

you can never go back

there, it was that instant

when you rested in my arms

and nothing else mattered

you asked, was it the temper of day

or mood of furnishing night

but it was neither my love

it was the weight of your head

against my rising chest

which had stood dormant and empty

for as long as I breathed stale air

comprising bone fragments dry as old tears

until you came and filled me

with your familiarity and nectar

pollinating wasteland

as if that’s what I had been searching

in my wool socks with holes in

when I squinted out of the kitchen door

unevenly framed with draft leaching in

at birds picking the blossom from peas

tracing their growth, tied in rows

much like humans let themselves become

I saw the russet fox stalk out

proud and wild

he did not require straightening or string

to mold him to his burnished lament

his paws were blackened with coal

leaving indents of darkness in twilight

mocking the sobriety of obedient eyes

cloistered behind their rule books

chalky and calcified

the fox out shone even the gloom

misting the window blue

and first light

ardent and bright

looking something like you

as you turn in sleep

toward me

like a movement of

symmetry

joining emptiness

whole

The undead heart

b7e9260585815d324f4850ebd699eaf3In my head

there’s a record on a turn table glossy and black

when it gets to certain grooves I recognize the play of needle over vinyl and each crackle is a familiar passage through well-worn emotion

I turn everything on to create loudness

to expunge what I hear by drowning out

the washing machine, the dish washer, the blender, the coffee grinder, the lawn mower, the radio, the alarm clock, the hair dryer

I run the bath, I run the shower, I run the sprinkler, I run the garbage disposal, I run away from the song

It has one word going round and round

one face, one memory, two memories, a thousand

a wrist with a silver bracelet on, flung in sleep against burgundy sheet

every time you brushed the hair away from my eye, every squeeze of our fingers captured, every kiss, every smile, every year I see the wave of loss it is not so far beyond turbulence

today the clouds will not clear, I get in the car, I tune to the loudest song, I scream as I drive, years burning my eyes, straining to see through my own download

If I had a name for it that name would be wreckage, ruin, destruction, destroyed, unplug  me, burn it out, scold,  defeat, disintegrate, desolate, muted, drowning and burning at once

I would be a legion of black horses sweating sorrow

I would be a night never turning into tomorrow

I would be a shroud worse than death for the one glimmer

that hurts the worst and makes you hold your breath ever deeper

a chain, a spike, a hammer, a knife

and all I felt was love

and all I wanted was you

and all I am is nothing

It plays round and round

like two hands cupping sound

no amount of running or noise can disturb

the undead heart

Not changed

freja-beha-erichsen-vogue-uk-january-2014-2Tell me

if time erodes pain

why then

does time

build

calcification

and stalagmites

and stalactites

why does time

raise from their graves

the new land drowned and reborn

why does time

etch hurt so deeply in frown

why does memory

deepen like a well sourced burn

why do my empty arms

catch in motion and fall

lost by my side

why if time erases me

in your heart and your mind

do I stand here

years from now

in similar light

with a chest full of hurt

not altered

not changed

Snow storm

thGrief

you can inhabit me

when all else is bare

the wind clearing space

I didn’t know was there

for now I do wish

never to remember why

the sting is relentless

we keep our mouths unmoving and quiet

nobody

not even God

would know the hurt that inhabits us

it is the savage essence of

being human

I long to leave

behind in soft

foot fell

leading into

the whirling

snow storm

Winter glass

24469743_c58d88ae1e_m(l.)

Winter glass

is yellowed with old sun

mottled by bird claws

resembling stained relief

a mustard bath

enclosing grief

fields are reaped clear

left to darken

shaken fallow

like wands of sadness

where once they were bright

alive with mice and voles

claiming their hidden kingdom

ears of corn straining upward

unfolding as sun shines

we forget to wipe windows clear

when clouds descend and rivers

freeze

closing off air

closing off movement

we retire in our woolen worlds

tucking our chins against brutal cold

like robins closing their red breasts

and the light that gets in

is tainted

like long left cigarette

stains thumb and forefinger

betraying a little of the smokers emotion

as she holds it

sparking in darkness

inhaling her grief

like swallowing words

goes unseen

beneath the ice of defeat

(ll.)

we who clamor without tongues

who fill our mouths with knowledge

no one is there to listen

we who close our doors at night

to the sound of hibernation

keeping out those who would

tear us from rigid postures

make scarecrows in blizzards

of our rags and scoured bones

for who knows?

how another feels behind walls

or how it feels to be touched by

dirty light letting in the reminder

we are but fields of yellow

turning brown and beginning once more

each time a little less steady

in our long walk