How to fix this leaky valve?
First, a mild little
But it’s worn just a bit more
To a moderate
Drip, drip, drip
And on so it goes to bleed out
A smidgen here and there,
Muttering and stuttering
About things it could once contain.
Nothing a spritz of WD can’t fix.
Maybe some plumber’s tape round the edge
To help the seal when it should close.
Maybe some solder to narrow the band?
Or use the iron to apply that stitching stuff
To hold a hem or two?
Just rip it from my chest.
Throw it to the flames.
Watch it shrivel, turning black
And then to ash.
Who knows? I may be rewarded
With a bird of feathered flame,
Clutching in its talons a burning heart
To place inside my chest.
Or, if not, I could use the ash
To mark my empty breast
With an X.
Time broke, And you were there, Black and white upon a screen, Seeming to tumble In time to the thump, thump From a machine.
Time split in half, And you were there, Barely a teen, Trying on a mountain of jeweled dresses Frowning and sighing. Finally smiling After reluctantly putting on a dress I asked, “Just try it, please?”
Time shattered, And there you were, Clattering down the hall, Your tiny toddler feet In my size nine heels.
Time wrecked, And there you were, An adolescent sleeping, Lips parted, A fist clutching a beloved stuffed bunny, So grown, yet so tiny still.
Time crumbled, And you were there In your toddler car seat, Sobbing, fat toddler tears For we had no food To give the homeless man on the corner. So, we drove through McDonald’s and bought a meal for him. Your tears stopped. You smiled as I handed him the meal. But the incongruity of your toddler voice admonished, “Next Sunday, after church, we need to buy a healthy meal And bring it to him. McDonald’s isn’t healthy to eat all the time.”
Time exploded, And there you were, Sitting in a swing, hands reaching for the sky; Crying in my arms, heart breaking for the first time; Laughing on Saturday morning, maple syrup running down your chin; Praying the Lord’s prayer in church, brow furrowed in toddler earnestness.
Time coalesced, Healing its broken, Shattered, Split, Wrecked, Crumbled, Exploded Self.
Time mended, Leaving us broken In its wake To find ourselves— Mother, aged And daughter, grown To know each other Again.
If only these colored leaves Of red and gold and orange Could be caught, Snatched gently By careful hands To be savored, arranged Somehow preserved, Rather than fall, lifeless Torn from their limbs By careless winds, Shoved to the ground With murderous violence To be trampled and ground to dust Or raked and bagged for trash Or better yet, If only these colored leaves Of gold and red and orange– Could stay filled with life And be always green.
Aesthetics of skin, nails, knuckles, bone Does not exist in The beauty of hands Lending help when needed is seen. Pulling a bloody tourniquet tight in the midst of battle, Swinging a hammer to build a house, Raking earth to plant a garden, Painting a work of art, Cradling a child to sleep, Caressing a lover’s skin. A lifetime of doing is the beauty of hands.
Set out years ago
Some no bigger than dust particles
Of the soul
Along the roads and paths
Thought I’d find my way back,
There’d be time
There’d be years
Left before the sand
Absconded with the hourglass
To find the trail of dust and crumbs
Sweep and pour them
Back into the soul
Add a few ingredients
Create once more
From the beginning
But birds and squirrels
Feasted on the leavings
And I’ve no desire
To return to where I started.
This is a blog about my life. It's about much more than living with cancer. It's about reading books, cold water swimming, mothering, eating. All that stuff that people who don't have cancer do. If you're looking for my poems you need to go to fmmewritespoems.wordpress.com