Ablaze, on foot,
I step carefully.
It is the mud season.
Still I slip.
I rise. Cushioned yet covered
in North Country clay.
In the lawn, I balance
between moods.
Melancholy, my old flame
rivals and demands a duel
with Joy, my courting suitor.
I can only write poems
and see where I land.
I pick up my Buddha books
I remind myself, it's a practice not a perfection
I have lost my compassion
I am white knuckling life
I am strangling joy
Again. I am going to try this again.
For the millionth time.
Until then I am steadying my footing
I am lacing my shoes
Sigh. I'm going to fail again.
I am not going to get it right.
Bit by bit we live, we learn
I forgive myself for not existing
in magazines and motion pictures
I forgive myself for everything
but forgetting to be kind
I am a control freak,
a perfectionist,
a manipulative force
but mostly
yes, mostly
I am just fearful
and faithless.
I am so good at being blue
I am so good at being down
I consider myself water
I insist I have drowned
Ophelia-like, ropes and rocks at my feet
I crash and smash upon the cliffs
I am not car parts, I am not cutlery
How many times I have jumped
without cord or chute
How many times I have leapt
and landed
bruised yet complete
Reflected yet smudged
Mirrored yet fogged
I see myself too late
in the still water beside your bed
I recognize my features
my nose, the slope of my forehead
my god you were right, I'm beautiful.
my god you were right, I am holding on too tight.
my god I'm sorry, and you are no where in sight.
(I miss your arms. Does that make me clingy?
I miss your snoring. Does that make me crazy?
I miss your laugh. Does that make me pathetic?)
Perhaps I am more Norturne
than Fur Elise
but perhaps you could play for me
as I curl on your couch
a somewhat circle of girl
imperfect, utterly aware,
sincerely trying,
and lovely in sleep.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment