I know all about the shock that comes
with that sense of leaden dread:
it’s all over now.
We’re talking definitive adieu:
no more chances for ciao.
I know all about the stages of grief,
but knowing won’t numb my pain.
Shock, anger and denial,
depression and then acceptance?
Yeah. But MY loss can’t be so contained.
OK. So it was expected
that any breath could be her last.
I’ve sat with her so many times
as I raked over gripes from my past.
But what I’m still sitting with now
is the contrast between life and death:
one minute her chest’s up and down;
the next she’s drawn her last breath.
There was calmness in that in-between moment,
with sounds of her last snores and sighs,
as I sat in my ambivalent seat
making heartfelt, what-if goodbyes.
Why should I forgive
when you beat me black and blue?
Why should I forgive,
when you never said ‘I love you’?,
until you got awfully, really ill,
and you wrapped me
in embrace,
a blankness on your face.
Because you never could connect.
You always hit my face,
my cheek, my neck.
Yet your depleted, needy form
removes my urge to skill, perform.
And so I sit, allowed and free.
Unforgiving keeps me trapped
between the oldest, youngest you
and a newer, freer me.
Blame is a hot potato:
chuck it at the nearest hands
who’ll catch it, unawares
that it will stick and cloy and brand
them with stuff that isn’t theirs.
Some tears are too big to be held
by a flimsy little tissue.
A dabbing of nose and a clearing of eye?
Sometimes there’s a bigger issue.
Some tears need an absorbent snort:
something to hold, not judge you.
At first, my tissue fills with tears.
Unable to tolerate the smell, or my fears.
The nurses so kind, so matter of fact,
while my guilt and my grief are tightly packed.
But it’s not about me. Holding on tight,
she’ll let go when her heart loses fight.
Until that time, she’s curled tight in a ball:
no control of her mind, mouth, body or soul.
And me? I sit quiet, in a meditative lull.
On life and death, this is a chance to mull.
You seem to love my lack
of cash and space and time.
My stress gives you all the power.
My strength you tend to malign.
You love being in my car,
as I struggle to give way
to the entitled, selfish beings
you’d like me to disobey.
But how can I outwit you?
You strike from a nowhere place.
Can I forgive when in a hurry?
Or will you leave me in disgrace?
We’ve never been close
you’ve always resented that.
So you lashed out and used
the shaming sting of your slap
to keep me in my place.
Neither too clever or too cool:
I was only ever safe
as a perfect extension of you.
So now you’re close to dying.
It’s been a rapid, vicious decline.
My resentment for your blows is
twisted round some thorny vine.
I’d love to find forgiveness,
some sense your life was worth
all those prickly punishments;
that your purpose was divine.
While you’re that shadow under the tree
out there,
you own me.
While you’re the road rage in that car
over there,
you own me.
While you’re that person who snubbed me
back then,
you own me.
While you’re that mess in my cupboard
upstairs
you own me.
While you’re that bilious resentment
in my heart,
you own me.
While I blame everyone else
for my own faults
you own me.
But take back all that stuff
and make it my own?
Stop the blame.
Retract the same-old-same?
Well, maybe day-by-day
I will start
to own myself.
I knew where everything was in my drawer.
That’s how I could tell
when someone started rooting
for evidence I’m a Jezebel.
That someone thought they owned
my every thought, my every move.
If she didn’t choreograph it,
she’d seek only to disapprove.
I’m not the tidiest of people:
my pants mingled with my socks.
But I still had to be clever
though she thought she could outfox.
Looking back I feel rage
that I never had that safety
of a drawer to call my own.
But to challenge was controversy
so I kept a necessary quiet,
tolerated her invasive checks.
But I suspect it might’ve been envy
or a dark personality complex.
Either way, I’m through with drawers
for hiding what might be secret.
Find what you will, let your nose lead the way.
I’m not the one living with regret.
inktuition 