»
Archives
»
Open Poetry #48
»
The Marking of Lives
| Open Poetry #48 |
|
The Marking of Lives |
|
|
KJOTT Member
since 2012-12-26
Posts 87Canada |
This poem spans a lifetime. The events unfolding here are remembered and told from the experiences of a little boy. The story is not perfectly accurate in that events were pushed into a single sequence. They were in fact spread out over time and locations. The Sunrise was a hotel on Vancouver's Hastings Street. The child welfare office was in Edmonton. The bed in a box sequence was as exact and as brief as the poem required. Her name was Lyla. The Marking of Lives ________________________ This— This is the closest we have been in forty-seven years. Graveside, I close my eyes. See again, her lips smeared, her head turned, as she had lain unconscious. Whispers of Other men— Immoral— Immoral living— Declared unfit for motherhood and I am only days from four. Before that, in white shift sitting at the foot of her bed and singing quietly to herself. Singing, brushing and lifting her hair. Letting it fall. She is lovely to me. Later, that night, weeping, anger, fists and cries. At fifty-one I look like him. Fist-Man. Father. He wept in Irish taverns filled with weeping, singing drunks. She had danced the Sunrise on Hastings, whatever that meant. She was gone when I was taken. I was gone if she returned. A Child Welfare office filled with nervous women, children dressed in Sunday-best and a faint wash of fear— these memories, all memories, discomfit and jar. A metal cup with orange juice. Warm, sweet and slightly bitter. The far end of the room. A bed made in a wooden trunk. Eyes slipping. Box lid closing. Sleep— Bewildered, pushing, opened, the room lies stark, white and empty. No mothers. No children. No one waiting here. The lump that rises to my throat is the same one— the same one that rises in spasms from my chest on that dark-boxed, white- roomed and room-filled afternoon. In forty-seven years I would stand above her on that overlooking hill. No words to mark her place, a plot numbered between other unmarked and numbered graves. Maybe she was gone again. Gone before I could tell her what had happened, that I was sorry, that I would be a good boy, beg her— find me. Eyes opened. I have waited long enough. The sun is hot. White lines trail across the sky. Paper from one pocket. Pen from another. I write. Roll tight and push as far in as this ground will allow. White paper, ink. Graveside for her. Wayside for me. A mark was kept. A mark was left. A deep breath in, not held and out. |
||
| © Copyright 2013 Kevin J. Taylor - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
katahdin Senior Member
since 2010-07-01
Posts 1196ME. In the Shadow of the Mt. |
WOW, this was very moving. Such sad events, I hope it's not a true story of your life. well written. Kat >^..^< |
||
|
OwlSA Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347Durban, South Africa |
Such lasting impressions . . . shivers down my spine . . . if only parents knew and cared enough to know what they cause, though I am told, some do . . . I am sorry for your pain. Owl |
||
|
KJOTT Member
since 2012-12-26
Posts 87Canada |
Thank you katahdin and OwlSA. It is an old story and pain is no longer an issue. "A deep breath in not held and out." I've long since let it go. But there is a mark or two. I was adopted about a year later. My own favorite line is "He wept in Irish taverns filled with weeping singing drunks." |
||
|
KJOTT Member
since 2012-12-26
Posts 87Canada |
Thank you katahdin and OwlSA. It is an old story and pain is no longer an issue. "A deep breath in not held and out." I've long since let it go. But there is a mark or two. I was adopted about a year later. My favorite line though is "He wept in Irish taverns filled with weeping singing drunks." |
||
|
OwlSA Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347Durban, South Africa |
I'm glad there is no more pain, but I understand about the scars. I am glad you grew up the rest of your childhood in a family who chose you. Owl [This message has been edited by OwlSA (10-26-2013 12:53 PM).] |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
