Again the trees and streets
that are familiar to me,
certain shapes hanging stark against the sky
the curving lines that carry me back
to my history, my haunting grounds.
Here I find myself free from
work-a-day toils and wrapped warm
in the eyes of so many lost dear ones
yet inexplicably come to a crux:
A speechless hermit in cowl and splinter
of half-moon scythe- the words stopped
up with a black rag and all old ceremonies
falter and fall flat into dead space.
He is so small in the hospital bed
on Christmas night- uneaten, inedible
hospital food on the tray nearby
and the television tugs at your chin
as though attached by an invisible filament.
Flashing lights in your periphery
but my eyes are on his face
(so unmasked when I walked in)
and my hands in his hair
(wren’s wing, finch silver)
his hands so slender,
slightly wrinkled fingertips
twining around mine.
What is it I feel seeing him here,
in this unexpected place
like my mother was,
plugged with tubes, and wanly smiling?
There are no words
for that
kind of fear.
The road seems to double back
and close in on itself, serpentine
coils continually circling
and the horizon elusive,
still a tired metaphor.
Cobbled together proposals
for a higher resolution,
a sparing change in definition.
I could see myself going far
away from here and there.
I could see myself becoming
like a small, sharp knife
or the woman who disappeared.
Who can tell me which would be better?
(Incidentally, a copacetic and contenting holiday to you all..
Contrary to how it might read, all is relatively well. It’s mostly peaceful on the outside, at least. My family is sweet and makes me laugh.
We drink too much coffee and play Mhing.
It’s extinct which is even better.
Nothing connects, with all honours indeed.)