Getting Away
By mead815
- 260 reads
Getting Away
Counting the houses, the lights, the windows...
It's good to keep track, this path demanding
focus or, no, I demand that, make my movement
the most immediate goal.
All else has been left:
attachments, possessions,
the claustrophobia of a trailer cell
hoarding knick knacks of deceit.
Perhaps I dramatize. Some days were perfection:
the gift of sun on scrubbed floors, coffee before
the mail and starting on jobs...
Why belittle what my husband began tearing at?
Those flaws found were delusional, or minor cracks
still glued whole, of essence, like veins
of glaze in a fine antique bowl.
So our skins were bound, something to be held,
touched, looked upon with care
'til the smashing flew its furies in:
daily unreasonable bouts of knuckles, stares, words.
"We can get help... We should..."
Stone would want to listen more, stone, a harbor,
willing, yeilding, these boulders I could shoulder in
for the night in this park.
Here are my hands. Here is my scarf, my shawl.
I will tie and pull them round.
I will get through this night
&; away from counting houses, counting
lights, the face of some god, my
husband, in all these closed doors.
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