|
Half the Story |
for H
you have given me the gift of permission
and the assurance
that the process of surrender
for both chronic and terminal can be a creative adventure.
I will follow you as far as language and skin allow...
Today, tonight,
my stomach sounds like yours
again.
But mine is an air raid siren,
while yours counts down the days to
Hiroshima.
Today, tonight,
I ride a boat on tsunami seas,
yet I see land is a few
strokes away.
It is balmy and golden there.
It does not matter.
You cannot feel it.
You can't be
where you can't feel
what surrounds you.
Today, tonight,
as your tiny boat shrinks untethered,
I see you skirting my stormy bay
out into open water.
I want to yell out, while we still
have ears to hear, and
the life vest of logic inflates
just above the raging tide:
"We are okay in this life...
We've been enough."
While you once ably captained
your sound vessel through
the seaweed and brine,
she now funnels the sea through
her holes, and mine grows more
corroded by Life even as they swear
the mast does not tip,
as every breath uncorks new casks
of toxin, and nausea replaces
the salt in the air--
I want to feel we are at a picnic,
instead of a funeral,
for once, again.
I want to feel the soft sand
of the shore
under our toes, interlock our fingers,
and run...
copyright 2014
Jennifer
Bradpiece |
