It is Enough Now

•July 19, 2014 • 3 Comments

“You see that girl,
We raised her here.
She was a good girl.”

And while he no longer knows my name, my husband, or my child,
It is enough now that some part of him remembers some part of me.
And while he is thinner than the rough-neck farmer I once knew,
It is enough now that he grips my hand tight and hugs me hard to his chest.
And while the doors in his mind make strange connections between disparate pasts,
It is enough now that he still offers me a room to stay, if I should ever need one.
And while he drifts and is sometimes absent from the world in front of him,
It is enough now that when I call him Granddad he leans in and kisses my cheek.
And while it feels like a part of my own childhood will be lost with his loss,
It is enough now that I remember…

The rattle of the old Ford pickup truck on a sodden and bumpy pasture,
The wagon wheel of a steering wheel in my little hands when he let me “drive,”
The toasty smell of hay and the echoing sound of the baler, and his cattle call,
The smoke rising from his pipe and how he simply gave it up because I asked,
The motherless calf we found just born and how we bottle fed and raised her,
The Collie, Barney, and how he gave chase around the truck and under the fence,
The cowboy boots, and shoehorns, and handkerchiefs, and tractor grease,
The slices of salted watermelon over the sink and the ever-present peanut m&m’s,
The way we begged him to “scare us!” when we went to bed each night, and how he would always say no, and how sometimes he would crawl back into our room and scare the daylights out of us, and how we laughed hard and loved him for it.

“You see that man,
He raised me there.
He is a good man.”

-A.R.

image
Farmer with a Pitchfork, by Winslow Homer

Grandmother Time

•July 3, 2014 • 3 Comments

I like the ticking of a clock
Wound tight but counting down
The way it echoes ‘cross the kitchen
With a nostalgic tinny sound

I like the memories it carries
From its chipped enamel frame
A grandma’s hands there to rewind
Cogs ’till they bring comfort again

-a.r.

20140703-100330-36210971.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photograph by Cuba Gallery on Flickr.com

For my grandmother

(Re)Visitation

•July 2, 2014 • 4 Comments

Tonight I lie alert

And waiting

For sleep anesthesia

To cloud my brain

And lighten my limbs

But She descends instead

With her sadness dripping

From the ceiling, down the walls

Filling the bedroom

Until I am drowning

In her, with her, from her

My lungs shake and eyes burn

I try to find my breath

It is of no use this evening

Not even my exhale escapes her tide

So I give up, give in, give to her

My fear

My failure

My death

My nothingness

And she seeps and I weep

Into and from every pore and orifice

Her liquid non-life saturates me

Devastates me

I will not sleep tonight

I will stare with eyes wide open

From the bottom of her depths

Until the sun

-a.r.

sadness

This is a reworking of an old poem of mine from January 2013, done so because I have recently had a similar struggle.

Lost Luggage

•June 25, 2014 • 8 Comments

Anything can be a crutch
Any habit that we need too much
All routines subject to change
Better to breathe and rearrange

–a.r.

20140625-141717-51437440.jpg

Ebbing

•June 23, 2014 • Leave a Comment

April:

Because I recently returned to her, and even if only for a short while, I am full again and glad of it.

Originally posted on sometimesihatemycat:

I miss the sea
Her brine in my sinuses
Clearing, cleaning, leading me
Towards her lace, chasing
The weightlessness that lingers
Deep in my brain and bones
After floating free in her belly
The taste of her tears on my tongue
Disguising the salt of my own
Crystals glinting, coating my flesh
For hours after I have left her side
The tiny sands she leaves behind, twining
My hair reminding me to let her stay
Thick, unwashed, and wild
The ache from who I was, unburdened
When I was with her
I miss the sea

— A.R.

20140121-170118.jpg

Married to the Sea by Clare Elsaesser

View original

Digging In (repost)

•June 11, 2014 • 2 Comments

And needing nothing
Today I will bury myself in my art
Bawdy books and meaty music
Six feet under layers of history
Ancient minerals mixed with new
Tunneling of night
Crawlers without a light of any kind
Only in search of warmth of flesh
My movement my breath my life
There will be no separating
Brain from body roots from tentacles
They are all welcome
Because they approach by sense
Alone without eyes
By tonight my body will gladly be
Buried alive

– A.R.

buried_by_manuelestheim

Buried by manuelestheim from deviantART

Early Reaping

•June 6, 2014 • Leave a Comment

A crow carried my soul away
Too many years before I passed
Beyond my body breaking low
I parted gladly in his grasp

Not soon enough for saving though
I was no longer fit for that
Having been born savagely so
Ravaged quite well before the act

He flew in through the window
His winging swirling broken glass
Swooping he scooped my spirit up
And gave me leave from living fast

But what to do with wispy me
Pitied much sooner than was tasked
We are each other’s chore forever
More with purgatory ticking past

-a.r.

Touch in the Mist by RytaTouch in the Mist by Ryta

A fantastical retelling of dissociation during abuse, I have written about “the window” several times before, and clearly I was inspired by that well-loved B’more POEt.

 
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