The
pull is insistent;
the
pressure enduring.
Though
her best years lie behind her
and
her best memories lived and forgotten
her
hands move leathery into your wounds;
tired
and rough,
they
set your bones,
there
where you ache tender
And
you, capsized upon this bed
shivering
all through—
a
wreck, run yourself into the walls
against
the high cliffs of your room
still
desperate to see run aground
the
voyage of your name.
The
pull is consistent
but
no matter.
How
can she touch you?
She
shackles you
with
her calloused hands
and
slings your shattered arm
but
you do not feel,
no,
not deep, deep beneath to
You
and the heartbroken sycamore that became you
The
lightning that split your trunk
the
thunder that hammered your chest
BEAT
BEAT
BEAT
the
wail
the
crash
you
breaking
beat
beat…
But
she
does
not rise with your emotions.
She
does not suffer with your indifference.
She
has no pity for the ruined few;
the
pull is persistent
and
unrelenting.
The
frail boards and timbers that worn you
she
patches in the back.
You
know: she tells you.
There
is no mending that is gentle;
no
love a caress.
Nothing
will save you from the whine
of
your slow-churning regret.
She
grabs you, and seizes you
and
you cry
those
large, round tears.
In
the language she teaches you, putting splinter to splinter
you
are scraped together
and
do not sink.
