scarred scared and disrepaired
the tagline of last soldiers
loss holders
heart boulders
we are the collection
of collectors
gathering bones and
burying stones
building cairns
in bare memory
corners
and backing away
ever so gently
despite the premise promise
of tumble
and tremor
. . .
and deep dark
late night lists
of the ways we are all
just a little bit
broken
and the revelation
that all we can do
is open our arms
our minds
our fear closed
scared scarred
sacred
hearts
and face the sun
one more time
one more day
one more moment
today
today
today
and love
that’s
all there is
ever
not forever
just this
minefield mountain
of now
the present
of presence
and these shard blue
sheltering smithereens
of moving sky
…
…
like the gathering jay
landing indigo dark
at this goodbye leaves fly sky
waving summer’s
last muleta
…
and this hollow black horizon
fielding landings
for cold flight frenzy bright geese
holding court
in a flurry of age
…
and you treading merlin’s tall night
through a landmine
of lost forest season
no frame can contain
or define
…
and the brink of soft light
through these brittle bone trees
of tender sight not quite description
guiding current the truest
way home
…
it’s dawn
and the mockingbird
is spinning
suddenly i want
to fly again
straight off the ends
of this square peg earth
into the winding path
of freedom’s glee
burrow deep into the heart
of day-blind skunk
and know the strength
that builds red bricks
from beasts of prey
ripple down
across the shoulder
of this rolled-boulder current
pounded smooth against
a blanket of doused flame
no longer
broken
but
broken open
open
and mirrored
plain
yet again
i climbed a mountain to return a heart-shaped rock,
walked a forest and forgave the past of everything,
broke a leg and knitted living back together,
skirted vulture cliffs and jumped only with my smile,
buried crack-lipped hallelujahs beneath the twisted tree of pain
it’s morning
and the mockingbird
is singing
. . . . .
in that hole in my heart
(you know the one)
left behind in the wake
of a wave
core scoured clean
scored by sand
and detritus
scars scratched
into every blind surface
echo etchings
scratched
into permanent
reminder
water always runs
to the lost lowest point
filling crack and crevice
with surface reflection
magnifying truth
and creating mirage
in the desert
of dutiful
destruction
the way it all shifts
when you learn
to walk through
rather than running
astray
the way trust
is a shell
balanced on backs
until we outgrow
the idea
the way a heart
always knows
its measure of weight
and its own
constellation of scars
the way hope
is not hollow
and just holding on
is more fragile
than strength to let go
.
.
these days
my time is turned
paying tribute
to lives lost
or never realized
dreams
a heart wove
as you
shoveled sand
into hourglass
of promise
and empty
all the while
pretending
not to notice
the mountain
you were melting
and mostly
it’s all just air
resting ripe in a bowl
far too damaged
for kintsugi
rift-silent and
hover proud
waiting
[still]
and open
always open
for repair
.
.
i’ve got all these pieces
shard sharp and jagged edged
heart blood dark
and silence hole
splayed across
this worn wood floor
tracing steps and trapped pretension
as it all rolls uphill
sideways
mirror mirror
pasted smile
fallen glimpses in the corner of reflection
shape shifting
loose oil carnage
and the dream I had
before
our room filled with smoke
my mind-body
shaking us both awake
certain there was fire
i still see the haze each midnight
floating right
above the quilt
i bought
to shelter the you
(or me)
i can never quite
remember
.
the year I became
an old woman
was the same year
the snows never came
the same year
your heartless mirror
turned my skin truth-brittle
the same year
black birds refused to fly
and i remembered
(at long last)
how to cry
heart and hands
bent and broken
scrabble-holding
weightless forest
neither you
nor i
but the (w)hole
damn mess
the same year
water taught me
how to whisper
the same year
i spat bitterness
back to center
washed myself clean
the same year
as those that marched
in pattern-dashes
of before
you always leaving
me always loving
someone
never there
and only trees
know the last
ancient riddle
bearing witness to the scars
of hollow hearts
still standing
(always standing)
shedding leaves
like tears
at the threat
of yet another
dark-buried
bold-cold
winter
. . .
.
.
listen to my reading of as it turns out below:
stand tall in the light
of your own deliverance
bury nothing
but roots
grow rings
of truth
spin buds
of grace
and wait
time will spin
your story
into fresh green
dappled
shade
