Wednesday, January 2, 2013
There Is Peace; And It Is Coming
Now - bent, bruised, winged - the raucous songs
push out of you in random animated bursts
and some simulacrum of vitality shows itself
as a brief distorted mask set in your face - your lively eyes
impish in their determination to make spectacle
and focus any awareness in the room on you, and you only:
a patchwork girl running from teasing brothers
and searching all through a house gone terribly quiet
for the woman in a cloche hat who was mother,
before the absence began,
and the drifting days
echoed to sighs you could never locate.
They wash you, dress you, sit you in your chair propped like a doll
and you don't even know when Tuesday began.
You're somewhere out on the ocean, now,
but have forgotten to look at the stars for comfort.
And the boat is going very slowly, even as it picks up speed,
and you're lying there with all the space of the sea and sky
inside your eyes, which are focused nowhere - except on your longing.
Your frail right hand lies pointlessly on the tiller, mother,
and I can only watch as you become hollow.
You'll wash up on a beach with your stick and incontinence pads;
your deaf ears; your osteoporotic bones crumbling
and that place will sing you into some sort of rest at last.
So let your spine curve, let your flesh sag; do your words -
there is peace, mother, and it is coming.
And there will be an angel.