Wow, has it really been almost two years since my last post on this site?? I feel bad for neglecting my writing, but I’ve been really busy with a bunch of other non-writing related activities. I’ll try to summarize what’s been going on in my life the past two years.
I scream to the sky–no answers;
I ask for accommodations I cannot have.
We request this:
A prelude, an overture, for what you’ve wanted…
Doing so ensured her overlooking an answer.
The puzzle of “being” something only fed her disdain–
a healthy vision only attainable in dreams.
It took these words to find the sleek form she sought.
Her litanies at supper were remonstrant
hisses that culled and lulled her handiwork;
Invoking her upbringing before meals
wasn’t enough to fulfill her ungodly aims.
In the sixteenth century, it was customary (cautious?) to
assume some were in correspondence with
the afterlife–that they were witches. To this end, and to
a significant degree, those in question were purged.
Now, we preach other messages, hoping to be heard.
We seldom reflect upon impending fires,
or a judgmental drowning that might have happened several
hundred years prior.
We mark off as mere belief, those
things that are dark factions of knowing.
These encounters, these pleas–
such misinformed stalks vitiate
me: a keel-hauling through a body
whose waters burn with bromine.
You will discover my moorings
clean from fasting, from strict ashes;
I stiffen for your bind. Filter me down,
again, to an edifice for your era.
Oh stranger, you cobbled me your disciple,
confounded all my discipline.
Is it fortunate to be light, thinly
stamped? My distress is your atlas
and confluence for a gaunt sale.
With these last laps I leapt with devotion turned
distant at your dismissals; I consecrated myself with
only You in my mind.
Now my song for you is finished with a sprite fluttering,
and corporeal liturgies flow from my body as it’s allowed–
water-drawn glory swept aside, for purity,
She was told it could be “overcome;”
given pills as tools to survive;
given a place, a time, to talk with a therapist
about dreams bigger than her own.
Her condition isn’t so codified, or one
of such solitary refinement.
She relies more on her words
than those of others.
You counted every success, every failure,
like points in your game.
You split into strands and magnified
the peaks of your own denial,
expected us to pull you
from your pilloried past.
After each loss, was it really
so strange for your tears?
Didn’t splitting all this pique your interest?