Groan

Birthed into black,
my head in a bag
unable to breathe
without feeling the
suffocation of your absence,
slowly spinning my eyes
backwards into the sky
where they cannot be
retrieved.

Raised on baby-bottles
filled with milked soured
by salty tears,
weaned by dirty pacifiers
and torn blankets,
with holes of your making
cut with the same scissors
that separated us
and my bellybutton still aches.

Grown and groaning
for the lost days
of light and fresh air,
your smudging hands,
and crocheted blankets
decorated with promises.
Offered to other
more fortunate babes,
that I will never be.

You ought to remember,
that I didn't choose you.

Susans

I poke and prod
at the earth above me
hoping to find some soft spot
to break the ground.
As I do,
my eye sees shades
of green and grey
crawling over the surface
of this boneyard,
and at last, I can breathe.
A soft breeze directs my gaze
in all directions
and I soak in roses and potted plants;
jealous of their rich beauty,
while I offer nothing but yellow petals,
and a black center.
A large stone,
tall and solemn,
carries a name I do not know.
It rests behind me like giant--
sleeping, and will never wake.
And I am but a stray wildflower,
sentenced to adorn this plot,
while my roots reach down
to a nameless master.
All I can do
is just sway, sway, sway,
in this potter's field.

Projectors

How do you stand
sitting in all our places,
with people other than me
and forget all the words
that cling to the walls?
And all the tears,
that soak into the fabrics?
And all the tensions,
that still float in the air?
I can't even walk
in and out of these places
without feeling heaviness
a pressing anxiety,
and when I close my eyes,
I see the memories like projector slides.
You slide in and out of my eyes
and I am unable to forget,
unable to wipe you away.
How do you stand it?

If you have a secret method,
I'd love to know what it is.

Funeral for a Friend

I'm in my Sunday best.

it's raining, 

just like it would 

on an occasion such as this. 

There are no flowers, 

or little candles 

to usher you out,

and no commemorative picture 

of a smiling and eager face. 

There are no sweet poems 

or small speeches, 

no awards, 

no songs, 

just a box. 

Just a hole and some mud

with a shovel at the ready.

And when I look around, 

I don't see anyone else.

It's just you and I my friend, 

like it used to be, 

and though the time is coming 

to tuck you in and cover you up, 

I won't walk away, 

until I'm ready. 

I'm not ready yet. 

Vultures

In this brain
with its rights
and lefts
I am circling
looking
and searching
for one way out.
I come back
to the same ruins
over and over
hovering around
all my losses,
failures, and mistakes.
A shameful reminder,
a torture I bring upon myself,
yet I can't stop.
I yearn for escape,
but it's my own fixation
that traps me.
How I long to break
all these things
that hold me
to these messy,
overwhelming,
smouldering, piles
of reminders.

How I long for selective memory.