Afloat

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.