At bedtime,
those dark blooms in her room.
In coffee mornings, the dregs of her cup.
At lunch, in her rusted car,
the depths of her purse.
The tunnel vision of her darkened spirit.
The hurried look of a long-time user.
And, on this day,
the hand-like shadow on the x-ray plate.
***
At some days’ end,
I feel as if I have stepped my last-
propping up this frame,
these unpadded shoulders,
boned as a scarecrow.
Dithering with the primal thoughts of a child.
Open-armed,
palms in supplication.
I bow down,
I do.
Image: pixabay.com
Fifty years on,
in my sad unpacking,
this time of letting go,
I find,
pressed between panes,
a polaroid.
A face is fuzzily framed
in one angled corner, and
I think it’s you.
A blur of bouncy ponytail,
laughing eyes and bunny teeth.
Looking up,
waving goodbye
to balloons released,
bound for a section of cloud
on some other tangent.
Nothing between but blue.
Was it the day
we went downslope
into the forbidden ravine,
inventing a tent out of bedrolls and branches?
Jelly sandwiches.
Red rolls of caps for fun.
The contraband camera,
the stolen tarot deck and decoder book.
My life.
My love.
There was no other.
How will I find that cloud tangent now?
His ears have been ringing for thousands of days,
as from a hard slap, but it stays and it stays.
A similar sound to a siren that plays
without losing its pitch pipe perfection.
A strangling snake seems to coil, and to tighten.
Never to loosen, never to lighten.
Its singular purpose to cow and to frighten,
‘Til its victim has no clear direction.
His nose, it is running. His stomach, it churns.
There is no surcease from the acid that burns.
The doctors have done all their tests, and he learns
that there is “no disease, or infection”.
“My bones out of joint”, as was said in the Psalm
“My heart melting like wax”, with no spiritual balm
“I am poured out like water”, there’s nothing to calm,
and no miracle cure or injection.
All too common, our souls tell this harrowing story.
We cry out to someone (the Power and the Glory?)
We regret, we repent, and we say we are sorry.
We’ll accept any kind of correction.
Will forgiveness be ours, now our life is in doubt?
Can our guilt and our sin and our debt be wiped out?
If we care, then we’ll know what this story’s about-
We are called His Divine Imperfection.
Aremyfeetofftheground 