σύζυγος
We are so afraid of holes because
Holes are signs of imperfections
Holes are where decay set in.
People look into holes
And only see gaps
So we cover
Our holes.
But
What if
Holiness
Is when the holes
Are allowed to work?
Letting light through the breaks?
Since fists too tight to open
Can never hold another hand
Or release the regrets of the past.
Goodness
Our whole
Day is
Doomed by
Acts of
Mother
Nature
“Come on,” the mother tugged at loose, plaid sleeves,
The other daughter watched across the street.
My brakes in anticipation squeaking,
Glances from all three plus me at the wheel.
A quiet intersection of our lives.
She then waved, urging me to drive around,
At this moment, more in command of me
Than the daughter too scared to cross the street.
And two parallel lines met just then,
Touching briefly before we all moved on.
Tired,
It sneaks
through the cracks
like a bubbling
pitch that burns and numbs
as it crawls across the
surface of my vision stark
and black against the blue glow of
monitors and screens which smirk at me
like I’m not good enough and I’ll never
be okay, and as it washes over me
and hardens into tire rubber I can’t muster
the strength as my limbs are tight against my body and
I’d have to lift something with muscles I’ve never
used before or ever knew existed, like
I’m wrapped in cement and I don’t have the
momentum to spin and I’m too far
behind everyone, so I hide
where its safe where nothing can
hurt because I’ve been on
this road and it’s just
a big circle.
I feel sick
and so
tired.
The verdant umbrella flaked in golden light
A tree I’ve embraced to shelter me through spring
As the rains soaked me through until I was rain too.
So much hope in this tree which would bear much fruit
The summer of stars marred by sleepless nights
A disparate desperation in the separation
As my health slumped against the bark-hewn trunk
Hope buckled under my weight against the root
The bones like lightning scattering through sky
A chill of leaf-laden whispers surging into screams
As autumn coughed in my nose, mouth, and ears
My tree leaned in the breeze and crushed me.
The woodcutter returned and pushed me aside
A crashing of all that I knew splintering amok
As he swung his ax like the fury of winter
The woodcutter separated me from my identity.
Together a fire was made to heal my bitterness
From the remains of a tree that I believed could save.
I see now a dead tree gives no life until killed.
Covered in bruises and ashes I was at peace.
People can get used to
Nearly everything
Even the fact that
They’re being used
But I think I might
Never get used to
You; even if I
Am being used.
I could try to catch
The biggest drop of rain
or
I could be happy with
The ones that chose me.
Suzugos