tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80363383034374030582024-03-13T15:05:04.913-04:00These Cells Are PassagesSRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.comBlogger413125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-55315759581818512282024-02-24T18:49:00.009-05:002024-02-24T18:52:34.451-05:00On neurodivergence She said, "you can only hold <br>
one thought in your head at a time," <br>
like a small bird <br>
that falls out of a nest--<br>
fragile, its breaths urgent. <br><br>
But as she is stating this "fact,"<br>
I do not think that she is correct, <br>
as each of my thoughts <br>
darts <br>
fully formed, <br>
flashes of hummingbirds each time,<br><br>
and each time, that sharp <br>
little flutter<br>
frightens me <br>
when I mistake it for something else,<br> <br>
then it transforms <br>
and finds a friend to fly with it, <br>
each bird defying what makes sense--
<br><br>
just like each thought begets another--<br>
related, but not always--to tag along.<br>
<br>
<br>
SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-91229106188842127512024-02-05T21:52:00.002-05:002024-02-05T21:52:56.455-05:00Pompeii
before the river
of fire <div>swept across the lands, </div><div>flames fell from the sky, </div><div>and we took </div><div>to each other's arms </div><div>for shelter.</div><div>in confusion, we wept,</div><div>our hot tears leaving </div><div>deep valleys </div><div>in sloughs of skin.</div><div><br /></div><div>this is a lesson we cannot tell you.</div><div>it has to be shown.</div><div><br /></div><div>we exist to care for one another. </div><div>it is written in our bones, held </div><div>in our graves
as testimony:</div><div>large skull, small skull, no flesh--</div><div>a mother's long limbs, fingers, </div><div>hold close her child, whose tiny frame</div><div>is forever five years old--</div><div>whose mother so loved him </div><div>that her last remaining instinct</div><div>was to protect him</div><div>from elements beyond her control.</div><div><br /></div><div>it is futile; it is terrible.</div><div>it has to be shown.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-78006968673007684712024-01-09T18:00:00.001-05:002024-01-09T18:00:16.455-05:00The American TraumaIt's the same reason <br>
the attic isn't decorated,<br>
or why guided tours <br>
of sausage factories <br>
do not exist.<br>
We hide truths. <br>
We store them <br>
not just in metaphors, <br>
in figures of speech,<br>
but in muscle fibers, <br>
in blood,<br>
until the resentment <br>
isn't just some burden<br>
but a punishment <br>
in waiting,<br>
curlers wound <br>
a little too tightly <br>
to the scalp,<br>
invoices folded <br>
into little sharp thirds <br>
before they go off in the mail.<br>
This is how the truth is inherited,<br>
one small bundle <br>
passed down <br>
then passed again<br>
until bones <br>
are wittled into nothing<br>
and daughters are left <br>
missing their fathers.<br><br><br><br>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-64910367820908249512023-12-20T15:07:00.002-05:002023-12-20T15:07:54.550-05:00a place that I can't get to<i>In a room, all I feel<br />
is the cold that you left.<br />
Through the air, all I see<br />
is your face full of blame.<br />
What's left to see?<br />
What's there to see?<br />
...A place that I can't get to.</i><br /><br />Red House Painters, "Song for a Blue Guitar"<br /><br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdRBxrNNGO8Foc1nYuO9VC4cc7Fn5XI3MGIC4yGHqkRIGm0maFZOxgExJhFqHefgj2AvV5XfqT3ZuRJ0wo2052sjkzVQk8npJ71n_TQkhhF2q_rlMKhe3uGr-C40EcutaMmJdesetpPkhp6n7ZPX47CZJmrbhUchmO0DJqEqBMmbB2b8eJVHWqZhfIWE/s2048/406723554_926949082124586_4457808465397468194_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1658" data-original-width="2048" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdRBxrNNGO8Foc1nYuO9VC4cc7Fn5XI3MGIC4yGHqkRIGm0maFZOxgExJhFqHefgj2AvV5XfqT3ZuRJ0wo2052sjkzVQk8npJ71n_TQkhhF2q_rlMKhe3uGr-C40EcutaMmJdesetpPkhp6n7ZPX47CZJmrbhUchmO0DJqEqBMmbB2b8eJVHWqZhfIWE/s320/406723554_926949082124586_4457808465397468194_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>
Who am I but <br />
an impermanent object<br />
shrinking <br />
into something <br />
I don't recognize,<br />
dreaming of a place that <br />
I can't get to,<br />
where every grain of an idea,<br />
every morsel of<br />
a tedious ritual<br />
seems like a waste of time<br />
because you aren't there?<br /><br /><br />
SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-41338924402116741092023-12-12T03:58:00.008-05:002023-12-12T12:48:50.387-05:00restwith the same voice, <br>
you would coo at small animals <br>
and comfort your adult children. <br><br>
with the same eyes,<br>
though colorblind,<br>
you would sort laundry <br>
and choose school outfits.<br><br>
with the same hands,<br>
you would tidy Grandma's grass and trees<br>
and bury beloved pets<br>
when they passed from this realm into the next, <br><br>
leaving their vessels behind<br>
for you to carefully grieve, <br><br>
for you to lay their empty limbs down and rest <br>
as comfortably as possible.<br><br>
with my soul, with my heart,<br>
I hope you can know<br>
I am so thankful.<br><br>
rest, dad.<br><br><br>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-78070932388689183302023-12-04T11:53:00.000-05:002023-12-04T11:53:00.530-05:00The true quiet<i>For Dad</i><br> <br>
How fortunate to have each day<br>
with you, beyond the artificial quiet <br>
of this room, full of gentle <i>beeps</i> <br>
and yellow lights, shining gems<br>
of unknown information.<br>
How fortunate to have each day<br>
of choices for you, gifted hands taking <br>
wires and tubes and delicate machines <br>
blessing you with comfort.<br>
But how selfishly, forcefully I have behaved,<br>
taking the hands of father time into my own--<br>
<i>Why now, and why him?</i> I ask.<br>
<i>The helper, the seeker <br>
who couldn't help himself, <br>
still seeking purpose for himself,<br>
still needing to love himself--<br>
Why?</i><br>
I know there are no answers. <br>
With the time that is left, I am here,<br>
we are here, anticipating <br>
the true quiet, and loving you--<br>
how fortunate.
<br>
<br>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-69075483295785286642023-11-06T12:35:00.004-05:002023-11-06T12:35:59.750-05:00their heart a balloon<p>how much space can a single person take up, a single person,</p><p>their heart a balloon, filling more with air than blood,</p><p>and the vessel lifts them up </p><p>past themselves, past what matters, and the space taken up becomes infinite,</p><p>without apology</p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-53036350315853924672023-11-05T22:18:00.003-05:002023-11-05T22:22:09.844-05:00wrong god<p>The brightest screen is replacing the sky today, and the dangers behind it are hidden in wires. </p><p>"You will get your money," she said, her voice, fractal, a prism, the smallest wave or beam...</p><p>..."just let me see the tangle of wires."</p><p>And just like that, the father slit her throat, her blood shining and sparkling, a currency of stars.</p><p>She saw nothing but the blur narrowing as she realized she put her trust in the wrong god.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-44040526132332182342023-11-05T01:51:00.003-04:002023-11-05T01:51:58.454-04:00Needed<p>Revisiting the worst in us goes beyond a short trial period. It has to uproot the dried and damaged, for they died of thirst, and you were too late to properly tend to them.</p><p>Let's reflect on this tangible fact for a moment, as the roots turn to dust in your palms -- just who do you think you are, exactly?</p><p>And do you know anything about nurturing these children?</p><p>Because you wear the gloves and overalls. You wear the straw hat. You even brought the proper canteen. </p><p>But you left your other tools at home. Your boots are clean and new. And your eyes track the movement of the sun in the sky a bit too eagerly.</p><p>You don't want to take your time. You want to hurry up, and get out of here.</p><p>Revisiting the worst in us is tedious and grueling. It isn't for the weak. Confess your crimes to the seedlings, and pretend you know something, anything, about nurturing these children.</p><p>Because you're needed.</p><p><br /></p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-18920375873157729502023-08-02T23:10:00.017-04:002023-08-02T23:29:54.531-04:00curb st0mp appeal<p style="text-align: left;">all of the lights in your car are turned off. Radiohead tinkers softly behind a forced fan. a forced fan, a forced smile, a forced hand on the steering wheel, and you are parallel parked in front of his house, with a little orange orb dancing on your lips. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">it's a man like this, who knows your real name, branches of a family tree, burned. it's a man like this who does more than spit on you when he sees you, when he notices your eyes lingering too closely on a significant emblem ironed onto his jacket sleeve. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">so you follow him home after he uses the self checkout. you know he doesn't spot you now. with a forced smile, you shush the fantasy in your mind, of replanting the trees, making him do it with you. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">instead, you watch the lights go off, one by one, in his little house, ending with his curtainless first floor bedroom and the shaded beacon on a Confederate flag, a delicate tapestry. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">he must know your real name, but not tonight. you roll down the window, put out your cigarette, and turn the headlights back on. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>how to disappear completely.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-41224999725291010612023-07-31T02:29:00.005-04:002023-08-01T08:06:14.030-04:00Choices<div style="text-align: left;">The joke is on all of us. </div><div style="text-align: left;">It isn't a comfort. </div><div style="text-align: left;">It's a smothering. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When she said </div><div style="text-align: left;">that you get to choose </div><div style="text-align: left;">to be happy, </div><div style="text-align: left;">she hoped you'd take </div><div style="text-align: left;">the pail from beside </div><div style="text-align: left;">your inherited bed </div><div style="text-align: left;">and walk it to the stream, </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">the gentle beck that's just </div><div style="text-align: left;">"always been there." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But "always" </div><div style="text-align: left;">has no volume, </div><div style="text-align: left;">no weight, </div><div style="text-align: left;">no matter--</div><div style="text-align: left;">not anymore. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Always" became a mist, </div><div style="text-align: left;">then it became a story. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This decision isn't a decision at all:</div><div style="text-align: left;">it's the pillow held over your face</div><div style="text-align: left;">until you slip away,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">further and further and further away--</div><div style="text-align: left;">no volume, no weight, no matter,</div><div style="text-align: left;">just gone, like all of your choices.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-14070072287093219982023-06-09T00:30:00.001-04:002023-07-31T02:35:32.838-04:00empty sella<p>pressed firmly at the base </p><p>until there was a small <i>pop,</i></p><p>fluid then danced and glistened</p><p>as it filled the cavity</p><p>like a little girl's glittery curtains</p><p>placed hurriedly</p><p>in her brand-new bedroom.</p><p>except, nothing was ceremonious.</p><p>nothing heralded this change of scenery,</p><p>and no one could even pinpoint</p><p>when it happened.</p><p>before we all knew it,</p><p>the girl was a woman.</p><p>hopes dashed,</p><p>she was only moderately</p><p>delicate,</p><p>a woman with a past--notebooks</p><p>of her own questions, but of other people's stories.</p><p><br /></p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-2092360078128716862023-03-20T23:25:00.002-04:002023-03-20T23:29:40.566-04:00BrightwaveAs the engine grinds,<br />
the blood and bones gum up<br />
what little connections we have made.<br /><br />
And before light settles into<br />
the wrinkles of the land,<br />
she turns to her savior<div><br />
and forgives him for the sand<br />
collapsing her veins like old tunnels.<br /><br />
"Be a dear," she says,<br />
"and hold my hair when<br />they finally come for me."<br /></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-44610177424339477382023-02-15T16:33:00.003-05:002023-03-20T22:56:05.784-04:00feast<p> when they pick at my bones</p><p> i hope they take their time &</p><p> enjoy every scrap that took me so long to collect</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>because it's the least i deserve</p><p>for all of the listening i performed</p><p>for each painful caw</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>i'll just</p><p>calmly request--</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"</span>chew slowly &quietly</p><p>don't consume me whole</p><p>take your time</p><p>as you take my life<span style="font-size: medium;">"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-22749906202668615962023-01-20T16:27:00.017-05:002023-01-22T01:42:10.282-05:00Tinder Date, Part 1<i>Just let me grab my keys<br>
and I'll be on my way.</i><br>
When I arrive,<br>
I'll just use my reflection<br>
in the storefront window<br>
to make sure I look human enough:<br>
pressed slacks;<br>
inherited loafers;<br>
compression garments<br>
underneath the fanfare--<br>
the overt performance and<br>
exaggerated presentation, i.e.<br>
Urban Decay on my teeth.<br>
I'll shove my keys into my pocket,<br>
look for you in a crowded room.<br>
Maybe you'll flag me down.<br>
Maybe your cool, sweaty palm <br>
will meet mine in an awkward shake,<br>
like we are striking an unspoken deal:<br>
<i>I'll promise to be polite,<br>
if you promise not to kill me.</i><br><br><b>Note: Inspired by a friend's true story, recounted and embellished with her permission.</b><br><br>
SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-14352899525720295372023-01-18T15:01:00.006-05:002023-01-22T01:41:50.441-05:00Tinder Date, Part 2<i>Teeth are a good place to salvage DNA</i>, you said, a bit casually. <br>
I did not know at the time if I should have come up with an excuse <br>
to leave the date early, or if I should have kept listening. <br><br>
Maybe I should have taken notes while listening <br>
to those true crime podcasts, interviews with seasoned investigators, <br>
throats pitted and scarred from cigarettes and coffee acid. <br><br>
Maybe I should have stayed up late with Grandma, <br>
process, in earnest, Detective Hercule Poirot’s observations--<br>
each carefully-coated in Murray's Superior mustache wax-- <br>
even if his silver-screen depiction was missing the gravitas to keep me awake.<br><br>
You noticed that I was suddenly quiet. You stirred the soup in front of you.<br>
<i>Speaking of teeth, yours are very nice, very straight</i>, you stated,<br>
because you were hoping to break the silence, fill it with your voice, again.<br><br>
I excused myself from the table. <br><br>
I think that bistro is closed now. It’s too bad. They had excellent bread.<br><br><br>
<b>Note: Inspired by a friend's true story, recounted and embellished with her permission.</b><br><br><br>
SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-43640661556729326832023-01-06T02:51:00.009-05:002023-01-06T02:51:46.734-05:00Disassociation, 1936He broke open <br>
her mouth, <br>
burgled the secrets inside <br>
that were hidden behind <br>
little teeth. "There you are," <br>
he said, triumphantly, <br>
but she was actually <br>
nowhere. She was gone, <br>
far away from there, <br>
with eyes <br>
scanning across <br>
so many scattered <br>
flurries, ash <br>
in the sky. <br><br>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-67383521174435488762022-12-05T21:59:00.001-05:002022-12-05T21:59:37.942-05:00Wednesday morning, Bucyrus <p>You didn't finish your eggs that morning.</p><p>You left them to dry into small yellow pebbles</p><p>on your Dixie plate.</p><p>That's fine.</p><p>Food goes to waste all the time, in any home.</p><p><br /></p><p>When you warmed-up the car that morning,</p><p>you forgot your gloves. </p><p>The chill prickled each exposed hair,</p><p>every tiny freckle, </p><p>as punishment.</p><p><br /></p><p>But cigarettes are worth it.</p><p>A cigarette run, that's worth it.</p><p>So the car is barely warm and it rattles down to the drive-thru for you.</p><p><br /></p><p>The girl with faded tattoos, </p><p>various traditional ones in blacks and reds,</p><p>blurry and swollen, </p><p>greets you with your usual pack.</p><p>Her hand is warm with two-dollars' change.</p><p>You may have graduated with her, </p><p>but you aren't sure. </p><p><br /></p><p>Your conversation is the same each time, </p><p>and each time, she tries </p><p>to persuade you </p><p>to buy a couple</p><p>of Faygo Redpop, </p><p>or something or another, </p><p>because they are for sale. </p><p>Two for one, she says, </p><p>plainly. You reply: </p><p>Maybe next time.</p><p><br /></p><p>The little sedan stumbles </p><p>back home for you,</p><p>parks tiredly, and you exit </p><p>with your treasure,</p><p>your soft little prize.</p><p><br /></p><p>The kitchen table awaits.</p><p>The eggs are just </p><p>as you left them, and</p><p>that's fine.</p><p>Such is the way of life </p><p>for these mostly-empty paper plates,</p><p>scattered works of art,</p><p>claimed by entropy, just like it is</p><p>in any home.</p><p><br /></p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-21549937906336774552022-12-05T21:51:00.003-05:002022-12-05T21:52:42.905-05:00Do You Share<p>If the fullness of their faces, </p><p>their bellies,</p><p>has you considering </p><p>your now empty plate--</p><p>shiny with grease, but</p><p>devoid of other evidence--</p><p>I would implore you </p><p>to reflect </p><p>on why that may be. </p><p>If it isn't jealousy </p><p>warming your temples, </p><p>if it isn't anger </p><p>quickening your heart, </p><p>then whose feelings </p><p>do you share? </p><p>You blame someone else </p><p>for the stain on your front pocket</p><p>from the last go around-- </p><p>perhaps the drycleaner,</p><p>was negligent with her small, </p><p>fumbling hands?</p><p>Perhaps the cook </p><p>at the other establishment </p><p>used too much butter, </p><p>leading to your garment's ruin?</p><p>Truly, whose feelings </p><p>do you share,</p><p>and to whom are they divided </p><p>and passed around--</p><p>broken bread, hard crust </p><p>cracked, with sharp edges--</p><p>until nothing is left?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-53380880254470997132022-10-12T22:24:00.001-04:002022-10-12T22:34:47.713-04:00Crumbshow are there no secrets among us <br>
when each violent thought<br>
is a crumb wiped <br>
from the corner of your mouth --<br>
careless, messy, <br>
inconvenient, human? <br>
and still, bombs make <br>
little sense --<br>
comm lines are snipped<br>
from reason, <br>
heartstrings replaced <br>
with barbed wire.<br>
those crumbs from before,<br>
they have been collected <br>
by warm hands,<br>
shaped into bricks<br>
for schools, for churches.<br>
and when you ask about borders,<br>
the children laugh.<br>
borders are easy<br>
when there is nothing <br>
to protect.<br>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-18384710153124391192022-07-23T22:45:00.005-04:002022-07-23T22:45:46.591-04:00Shelf life When dreams die <br>
in a convenient place <br>
between boxes <br>
of dried milk, you understand <br>
the sacrifice-- <br>
the cupboard unlatched, <br>
ajar, <br>
waiting.<br><br>
Some items aren't ready <br>
to be discarded.<br>
They aren't meant <br>
for donation, either.<br>
So your Greed <br>
plans the trajectory,<br>
the shelf life <br>
of your grandest wishes,<br>
and decides that <br><br>
sure, we won't prepare these <br>
today;<br>
we daresn't use them <br>
now,<br>
but when my daughter is grown <br><br>
they can be among <br>
the shit that gets thrown away <br>
for being spoiled.<br><br><br><br>
SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-76431595219809698902022-07-21T22:00:00.005-04:002022-07-21T22:30:49.750-04:00Not in the cardsI would love to be gentle all the time,<br />stroke the surface of each day,<br />coax it into light and being.<br />I would love to take the warm chemicals<br>of my womb and alchemize it--<br>with your assistance--<br>to bring forth, eventually,<br>from this kiln of chance<br>some new beauty, scared and loved.<br>But no.<br>That's not what<br>I've been asked to do.<br>Goal posts move feet, not inches--<br>with your assistance--<br>and gentleness has become<br>an inappropriate response<br>juxtaposed<br>with your bear traps<br>along the path.<br>Like your weapons,<br>you show teeth<br>and greedily<br>grab chunks of light<br>from each hour.<br>How much can be replaced?<br>How can we fix what is broken<br>when you don't want us to live?</p><p></p><p><br /></p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-84347907499026746952022-05-26T00:36:00.005-04:002022-05-26T10:24:12.639-04:00I did not knowi did not know <div>the death rattle </div><div>would come </div><div>so soon after </div><div>the plastic one </div><div>was gifted</div><div>as a hand-me-down. </div><div><br /></div><div>i did not know </div><div>you would be stolen in an afternoon, </div><div>soaked </div><div>before a summer vacation. </div><div><br /></div><div>how dare anyone do this to you. </div><div><br /></div><div>to deny you the discomfort</div><div>of growing into </div><div>odd features, </div><div>gaps in smiles, fixed. </div><div><br /></div><div>no. instead, </div><div>you were stolen. </div><div>no one had that right. </div><div><br /></div><div>and out will come </div><div>the phrases </div><div>we have heard before, </div><div>about heaven </div><div>gaining little angels, </div><div>about prayers, </div><div>"let me know if you need anything,"</div><div>"i am so sorry for your loss," </div><div><br /></div><div>and none of these</div><div>words, these deaths </div><div>will serve </div><div>as a unifying action, just </div><div>separate fingers </div><div>dancing, as they do, </div><div>across little keys, </div><div>until we say enough.</div><div><br /></div><div>how many are enough</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-77405073383025732842022-05-08T00:07:00.001-04:002022-05-08T00:07:19.977-04:00Mother's Day, 2022<p>Dear V,</p><p>It's been two years since you left. It also just so happens to be Mother's Day today. </p><p>To say I think about you every day is an understatement: there are moments, feelings, that are super-glued to tasks. I worry, for instance, about your disapproval of my poor housekeeping, of not making my bed, of not getting out the pots and pans when I'm depressed. </p><p>I worry about the white lies I tell to spend more time resting. Then I remember that you used to do that, too, when people would take and take. You wouldn't tell them to <b>stop</b>. You would be softer, surprisingly. You would just tell them to <b>pause</b>, via a little white lie...</p><p>I think about you every time I see an animal. I saw a fox tonight, disoriented or perhaps hit by the car ahead of me. I prayed for it. I cried for it.</p><p>I prayed, also, for the sick cat, one of yours, now under Dad's care. I pray and pray. I pray for more capable hands than mine to tend to these wounds.</p><p>I can give love and a couple of resources here and there, but I can't often give my time or my physical self, and I'm so sorry.</p><p>I hope you can forgive me. I hope you're still proud of me, of what I <b>can</b> do...</p><p>I miss your stories, even the ones I've heard over and over. A night owl, you would rock back and forth, spill secrets until 3:00am. And, oh, my guilt for feeling weary and tired... My guilt for not wanting to spend breakfast with you those last days, after you'd gone and bought those Wheat Chex and that soy milk... You didn't know I had plans in the morning. I probably hurt you in small moments like these -- when you made choices that were meant to be surprises for me, but I'd already made plans. Damned plans, interrupting play, interrupting opportunities to laugh with you, or help you...</p><p>I hope you can forgive my broken promises and unreturned calls. I tried to catch them all, but I'm sure I missed quite a few.</p><p>Now, I picture you rocking in your chair, with a book, killing time until one of your granddaughters called you back. Beautiful lady, so generous with her time, never bored, always thinking aloud -- I hope you know that I always appreciated you, and I always tried to say so.</p><p>I miss you so much.</p><p>Love, Shanny</p>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8036338303437403058.post-69343719258420297002022-02-26T16:08:00.002-05:002022-02-26T16:08:56.420-05:00The worst of the artificial tempestI.<div><br /></div><div>Hitting that main artery,<div>only just,<br /><div>the shot still matters-- </div><div>incomplete and harsh and cold. </div><div><br /></div><div>A small morsel </div><div>among the rubble </div><div>with ringing in her ears</div><div>knows not where</div><div><br /></div><div>her dog is,</div><div>so she calls out</div><div>hoping someone can hear her.</div><div><br /></div><div>II.</div><div><br /></div><div>The body dies gradually--</div><div>nerves tingling, as if waking up--</div><div>but communication is complete.</div><div><br /></div><div>Arteries jam, then close,</div><div>but she can still pull herself </div><div>up and out </div><div>of the shell</div><div>as cold gives way to heat, then fire--</div><div><br /></div><div>a burst of activity and noise</div><div>as the ringing stops </div><div>and the sirens begin.</div><div><br /></div><div>III.</div><div><br /></div><div>She is the tiniest thing,</div><div>the most fragile package,</div><div>the most scared little girl</div><div>with lungs rattling</div><div>and eyes burning.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her city, her surrogate, </div><div>could no longer</div><div>hold her and patiently answer </div><div>her many questions.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, she waited,</div><div>between crying out</div><div>a name she knew.</div><div><br /></div><div>She waited for a friend</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>SRMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04051453544096790385noreply@blogger.com0