Monday, February 27, 2017

Come to Terms

How does it work, this coming of terms?
Does it mean that I have become so well acquainted
with the hitherto nameless horror
that it has been subject to the indignity of taxonomy?
And having been accorded a category, title and alias,
It now sits meekly on a shelf, between First Heartbreak and Car Crash.

Does it matter, the terms I choose?
Is honesty important, with labels like:
“The Time I Tried to Kill Myself After A Year of Failures”.
Or should I encrypt my grief and mask it with mockery.
After all, “Miss Tiddlywinks” or “The Jellybean” doesn’t sound so bad.
Making what was an unimaginable, indescribable blow
an amusing misadventure in my madcap life.

Could it be the power is in the act of articulation?
And by capturing and framing the wound in words,
I am able to loose its piercing grip and evict it from my heart?
Or are the ‘terms’ to come to instead a relationship,
That I must concede between the thing and I?
A point of shared reference so close that we become family,
(And the sins of family can be borne no matter the cost).

But then, perhaps I am being too abstract.
And “come to terms” was always intended as an order.
Where “terms” was somewhere to go.
A mystical place where the wounded heal,
And no aching loss or painful memory can follow.
Because I have tried all these approaches but the last

And I am still not there.

Thursday, February 9, 2017

The Bag in My Closet

In the bottom of my closet
Sits a dusty old duffel bag.
That smells of triumphs and losses.
Crammed among cleats and balls,
Are my faint but stubborn hopes.
That my body will recover.
Cushioning my kit is that dream
Of an old and wrinkled me
Cackling round the bases.
Harbored and hidden away
Is the life I led for so long
That I have not yet given up on.