Tasting the starched fullness of expectation
I die poisoned by the truth of being
always less than
always not enough
always me.
Poised
emotions
Cold Melancholy
The tips of fingers and toes stiff with cold
trap the moment
as I remain attached to wanting thoughts
in loneliness waiting
for the warm of spring
The Rape
Attached to this moment by a thin string pulled
by a memory my body won’t cut loose.
An uncoordinated swallow and choking breath
released the head from my heart.
Alone
At risk
Trust dissolved in rhythms that would otherwise heal.
The Rape
Attached to this moment by a thin string pulled
by a memory my body won’t cut loose.
An uncoordinated swallow and choking breath
released the head from my heart.
Alone
At risk
Trust dissolved in rhythms that would otherwise heal.
Rhonda
I chose the yellowed white pearls your hands crafted,
gifted art,
entwined with my memory forever.
Now on the morning drive west
the pink gold sun
rises slowly behind me.
This gift speaks your goodbye to me.
Your death was from my art undone.
I am sorry.
There is more care than orders scripted or procedures done,
more than the fatigue of so much hurt.
I chose the yellowed white pearls
entwined in memory,
awakened to a daily becoming,
not fading
burning off the haze of dawn.
For The Record
She did not match the data presented
in hospital speak to a crowd of learners.
It was not so much a lie
as it was a revealing – a tale.
The well and the ill are stories
told from all sides of a hospital bed
in space and time
not captured in code and computer screens.
So let the record so reflect
the hurt and the heart of
hands reaching
and healing
beyond the numbering of days.
Photography thanks to Nick Van Zanten
Nursing a Wound
Without respect to will
the heart still beats and chest breaths life.
Not true when with pain
I choose
to listen or not, to care too much-
hold so tight the hurt
the inner lines are lost
and I am not me but you.
