Twilight is still mine
even though he is here now
and those dark days
seem far enough
not to matter,
they still do.
I have to catch my breath
when harsh words
the bars are non-existent
and those ugly sneered consonants
once spat in moments of rage
with images of you.
On those days
when light peeks in
just enough to make me smile,
and cardinal feathers
leave a trail of hope
for waking lashes to follow,
I tuck my tears
in his wings of humility
and pretend you never happened
There was a river and I filled it.
I filled it for all of us:
the ones who are haunted
from old words, cruel words, sweet words
and especially those words that wake us up
from a dead sleep, screaming to be heard.
I filled it for every color from every corner:
for those who cannot, will not, should not
and those who ran out of tears long ago,
for those who have too many reasons
or not enough time to sit down and cry.
I poured pitchers for her, for him, for us, them, …
yes, even them,
those who created, then left us, turned their backs,
spat, laughed, sneered and kicked us
when we were down.
I didn’t wait for the rain
like seashells wait for tide, or flowers crave sun.
I just let them fall long and steady to seal our fate.
There is a river, and I filled it.
This day in June
become little girls again,
of yellow pig-tailed
Saturdays at the park
and two-dipped cone Sundays,
I pull the covers over my head
and try to pretend that it is tomorrow-
(just another day,)
so my morning
can be like everyone else’s.
This always fails,
so I end up in the floor
in fetal position, wondering
what a horrible person I must be
to make a man walk away
while my little legs were still wobbly
and I had not lost my first tooth yet.
How could someone so small;
a curly haired, wide-eyed creation of love
be so unlovable?
Like every other June,
my husband takes my hands
and gently reminds me
that this neglect
(and yes, it is still neglect
as long as I am your daughter)
no, NOTHING at all
to do with ME.
(Out of the darkness, now,)
leafless, left somehow unscathed
through decades of fabricated bliss.
New, pink, like flamingos
hoping they would live,
dreams withered within trembling hands,
my mind chasing them, pulling them back
to breeze me through another midnight;
another morning; lashes forced open
like creaking doors
of a once sold out cinema
now cold, seeking laughter or any sign
that love was still alive,
fading stars losing the will to shine,
but showing up anyway,
like B.B. King-
always singing the blues.