As a child,
I survived the explosion of dreams
that left hot greasy remnants
dripping down the four-inch squares
of avocado green ceramic tiles,
marring their mirror like shine.
As a grown woman,
I survived the eruption of dreams
that poured down an encasement of hot ash
over all of life’s plans in the moment of diagnosis,
leaving monumental statues of grief.
Thus, I chose to live
where silence drones,
a rumble in the ears.
Nothing left--
a hole, a void
made by echoes
of desires held long ago.
So, I have taken a corn broom
to dance with me
in time to music
only I can hear
to sweep away the dust, the cobwebs,
the fuss of other’s opinions and ideas
of me, my doings, my words.
Yes, from my words,
I shake loose all the years of dust,
the years of ash, the years of grease.
All words, oh, so many words
I never loosed upon the air
to float free upon the winds,
tumbling away, up, around,
then returning once more
to spring up as wildflowers
when things turn to green.
I begin to loose them now,
freed to scatter where they will,
root, spring up where they
find a place to rest.
I drift Drift in purpose, direction, Resolve in question. Telling myself on repeat I’ve no need, no want Of soft skin against mine. To feel another’s heart beat Against my chest. Though I remember, Though I can still imagine, When I close my eyes What it is To close my hand round the soft hand of another, To fall asleep embracing—entwined, entangled, To wake and smell sleep warmed skin, To touch and take and give and kiss Before coffee should touch my lips. Such hunger is not a thing I allow myself to taste, The risk too rich, too great to let it touch upon the tongue. I am not young enough for a taste of what Should bring me to my knees— Of what I imagine That she’d taste like memory.
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