things I thought
precious I kept
in a cubbard shut
in a box wrapped loose
in a drawer dark
infrequently fingers
tracing lines slowly
Covetously unused
the years between expanding
things I thought
precious I kept
in a corner swathed tight
in a gut soured deep
in a heart caged rattling
rarely lips-wetted
Surfacing attempts thwarted
as a dry throat swallows
everything back into place
our song wasn’t really
our relationship
wasn’t
really
I know you were there
pictures tell me you
were
there
happy? you Looked in love
an easy thing for a someone sometimes
but the song was mine
the relationship was what
I made it
the melting
was all me
every hour of imaginary grace
you got all my giving
In hindsight, I wish I had celebrated my body more, found a calling, an interest. But I always felt, was made to feel…not enough, never…enough., the things I found of interest were not worth time.
The first fifteen years of gaslighting that was Mother filled every crevice. Sixteen years with the inattention of a husband committed only to himself shied me off connecting after it was done.
I’m hindsight, the continuance of the two years between should have been longer. At 53 I still struggle acknowledging my accomplishments and shrink at compliments from others.
In hindsight is not a healthy place to live, but the present can be difficult to celebrate.
one two three four bruises
low on my left leg
at and below the knee
I cannot say how they were got
only that they were noticed;
one deep cut on my shin
from a screwdriver dropping
the throbbing immediate
another scar only I will know
another scar the Sun will fade
I fast forward through scenes
extraneous, evocatively meant
to elicit emotions but elicit
sorrow for a life never-was
never-will manifest
another scar only I will know
another scar the Sun will fade
takin’ paint off hinges
the hours they knew
stories past, stories lost
who will remember me?
who will recall?
packing photos, aside I set
things thought, things desired
people transient, moved along
kept where most in pockets of
pocketless gowns never worn
anyways,
becoming layers of
paint on hinges