Member Rara Avis
Itís tangled, love:
my life, and the hope
that stretches, thin as the apple
peelings I remember my mother
discarding; I craved
her apple crumble, and I havenít
had it for years.
Yes, some things, we leave behind
and others we carry,
theyíre unreleasable, unable
to fall into the waste
although they force a prodding -
like sore teeth in
an aching, wet mouth.
This is my disease, this tangle
of lines and affliction.
Waitings, and unknown roads.
If I could shake it all out
Iíd walk smoothly, knowing I
could feast on my childhood
for the duration,
for my seasons.
I remember playing elastics with
the snooty girls who could always
jump higher (but could they climb
Their breath flew out in great gasps
with each triumph, and I saw myself
in the tangles I made,
their mockery rolling over me,
and I thought of how I had deciphered
my future from a cheap
fortune telling book, how
my dirty right palm told me I would
be successful after struggle.
Is success measured in the amount
of burns I carry, and the strength they
have supposedly infused?
Sometimes, Iíd like the
fantasy of weakness
My lines are long now, they soar out
past my palms and through the places
I have been, the hearts I have caressed
The hearth fire I knew is cold;
I survive by an inner heat of memory
and my electric heater, recalling days of
thistle blossom breezing through my castles
in the trees
Aging, Iím surrounded by the blank looks
of go-getters and vitamin poppers, all
hoping for that extra year
or two. I hope they live, in their ecstasy of
body maintenance, I hope they feel
the hurt that brings strength and a need
weakness and relief.
Perhaps, time will bring you to me,
and I will find one more tangle, and
one more survival to scratch into
the telling of my right palm.
~You can't see my eyes
They don't see yours
Hear me when I say
They don't mind at all~
[This message has been edited by Severn (02-22-2003 07:21 PM).]