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Winter pocket
Category: Writing and Poetry
again i am guilty of posting a draft... i think perhaps it could be two writes tangled as one... as is the difficult partnering of subjects, and of subject and subject matter. for such wordiness, i apologise. ...all feedback is welcomed.
There are moments in time,
laced like webs
casting shadows on shadows of scars
that are hard to refine,
as though left by blunt knives.
i arrive at dawn
from a night that shouldered me like an older sibling fearful of loosing their place
in the pecking order.
a night that had drained itself onto me
cleansing the torn mouth through which I dared not speak.
memory anchored me to your street.
sodden,
pockets laden with tears from a moon that had cried all night,
i approached
and spotted by your feline mess
with spiteful face and no agreeable sensibility,
my arrival was betrayed.
a vocal felled greedy sod he is…
entering the room past 3am,
to puke a rat on our bedcover
an offering?
No.
he is gluttonous.
he is you.
On the other side of the blue door
unlike the dawn, you showed me mercy
...only to later take it from me
while lost in the patterns of your face,
your unpredictabilty,
a familial 'knowing'
cut to befit me like a battered jigsaw piece.
the expiration of a moment
into the violent port of another
back to back;
refusing to acknowledge a difference in form
by your side the kitschy deity I gave you to celebrate a completion,
your degree
oh how he grins at me now.
all knowing
all seeing,
a smug many armed fucker, in red and blue.
I envy his discounted joy
repaired just once,
subject only to accident,
spared your rage.
…fallen petals hug his feet
they scatter as the weight of your volume moves air around them.
fallen petals from apricot dotted bushes
one hue to grace your yard
one hue, our constant border to spill and snip and flourish,
we’d carry them inside on yesterday’s news
just as my mother had…
to decorate a day with hope
a day we’d tease and stretch to a week or more.
(I’d) fill the vase and drop their lovingly cut butts in.
to gaze from them to you,
all things in place again.
now,
this moment in time,
it’s blunted knife memory twists and speaks to you both
for all my honour shared,
will you spare some faith?
I lay,
to wonder who sent me that winter
From torn mouth I could no longer silence
foolishly the words had fallen.
'The muddy footprints on the floor?
Are they yours,
or are they…?'
...
and now this year, winter has been taken early.
I sit with sun outside.
Where are the tears of the moon who hides his eyes?
I have pockets ready should he return
oh, how his shame delights me.
Time’s pigment stares back in mirrors,
casting shadows on shadows
moments laced like webs
delicate configurations,
scars on paper skin; thin as tissue,
to cut and tear once more in strong hands and turgid limbs.
be gentle
for
the voice of a silenced child,
heard
turning scars into ownership.
a cross of sorts to bear
sunken in the depth of desire...
winter after winter.
Unseen in life’s divine plan...
(yet) her face has not finished.
and,
under warm winter sun.
I cherish the day she was born.
© Bluebird 2008
4:06 AM
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