Have we ever done anything else?
Mouse nest in the cooler:
you lifted the mother by her tail
with her babies clinging–
never mind the traps we always set–
and carried her safe to the long grass.
Boxes sorted, stacked on the wagon.
Our usual jokes: how many times?
Don’t count, you’ll be sorry.
Once more, the tractor smell.
Then apples again: Akane, HoneyCrisp,
Keepsake, Jonagold. No MacIntosh now.
No Empire, Cortland. Nothing common.
Those trees with their first bad crop
of scab: unpruned, unmowed,
their last year with roots, with leaves.
November 29, 1955—June 27, 1993
After you died, I determined to live
more worthy, left work I was not
sure about, took up my pen.
It’s been twenty-four years.
I’ve spiraled back toward something
maybe like god, but not
the one I thought I knew,
for how could that one
have let you die despite
our prayers. How could it
allow so damned much pain.
The pottery monk you gave me
stands with his folded hands,
beautific smile, next to a jade tree
in a green pot. Your photo hangs
Once there were women with baby carriages;
men in bright uniforms,
their black boots and swords.
Once, yellow dogs roamed the streets;
you could see around the doorways
feral cats napping in the sun.
White washing hung from the lines between houses.
People were cooking chickens or baking bread.
Now and again, a red balloon
some child had let go
drifted above the towers and the trees.
Where once there was music,
there are no echoes left.
In this darkness that was bound to come,
you cannot see your broken hands.
Perhaps, when it is finished,
On this mountain
my mother told me
what the moon tells–
how we fill and fade,
the rhythm of her tides.
Now
I lift the moon
to light the house
where my mother lies,
a sliver of white.
The cold moon
burns my fingers.
I let her go.
We climbed the blue mountain
through the last spring snowfall.
It was cold, so we build a fire,
and sat with our backs against a stone.
“Marry me,” he said again.
“Why won’t you marry me?”
I want a home,” he said.
“I want children. I work
down there all day, the dirt,
the noise of engines–I want to come home
someplace quiet and nice,
a good supper, a friendly bed.”
We’d been through this before.
He doesn’t understand.
I told him once more
that I couldn’t, that I wouldn’t.
Hmmm...
Maybe I've lost my touch
I'm not as happy as I used to be
Not as funny Not as nice
Not as kind
It's overbearing, believe me
This past year
Has really murdered my senses
I used to be so loving
Not that you care
Teach me how to feel again
It seems to me that I am now broken
A poorly wired circuit I have now become
See life has a funny way
Of coughing on your face
And it makes you sick
That night was not meant to be special.
Yet, it turned out to be,
for it was the first time
that we had met.
Your eyes locked with mine,
and I knew right then and there
that I was done for.
Little did I know that you were
an expert at playing with one's heart.
You were kind to me when you wanted to be.
But when you were silent,
I knew that I was the last thing on your mind.
Yet, you were always the first person to receive my heart.
Your entire being consumed me.
But to you, I was nothing more than
a silly girl.
Oh, I love the pain.
Was that really a wise
thing for me to say?
Or do my feathers
not really drown
when he covers them
with ink?
My finger tips glide
gently across his skin.
My eyes see red,
but my heart sees dandelions.
I gather up the courage
to tell him that I am done.
But what is the use?
He will just tell me
whatever I wish to hear,
Standing there,
Smiling and laughing
Deep inside
Emptiness and crying
Trapped in a cage
Nowhere else to go.
Glowing eyes
Staring
Watching the damaged soul
Worth tearing
Why bother talking to me?
You know you'll never listen.
Why bother complimenting me?
You won't accomplish anything.
Why bother me with a single issue?
You'll never see me again.
Why bother? Why?
You wouldn't even care if I die.
I'm sorry about who I am
I'm sorry I exist
I'm sorry I'm a stupid bitch
I'm sorry I'm a piece of shit
I'm sorry I'm an asshole
I'm sorry I make you feel ill
I'm sorry I can't do anything right
I'm sorry for not killing myself with a poison pill
I'm sorry for being alive
I'm sorry for me being me
If you don't want me to be alive and well
Why don't you help me kill myself?
So many faces,
So many frowns,
It's always this day that turns my world upside-down,
Where is the joy?
Where are the smiles?
I guess they appear when I leave for a while.
"You're nothing but a plague,"
"Why do you have to be here?"
They don't say it out loud and yet I still hear.
I hear their silence towards me,
Their frustration becoming thick clouds in their aura.
I fear if I kept asking what was wrong I would open the box of Pandora.
They would tell me they think of me as a nuisance,
They would tell me to disappear,
Despite the lies that roll off their tongues right now.
Saying, "It has nothing to do with you."