Separation is the state of final
acknowledgement of the absolute.
Existing in relation to all, you cannot
complete yourself but we will be here,
remembering your name, speaking humbly,
offering colorful ribbons and tears.
Sacrifice is the act, the act that ends.
Who made the choice is not the point to argue;
you were chosen or made the choice yourself.
Whether the cause was just or not or moot,
something was required and you were loss.
Now, you have that knowing that eludes us.
Placated, soothed by ritualistic words,
we read hollow text and embarrassed by
uncouth grief and the shriek of loss we pray,
speaking of the Ultimate Sacrifice;
we whisper the name of that demigod.
Here….we will never have that knowing.
Guilt is the word, the word that tells;
leaving no room for elaboration.
We wrap your bones with no dreams in
The Cave of the Devoured Prolifics.
On occasion, we hear their soft clacking;
lighting candles, we appease with chants.
This is a reblog of an old poem which I am sadly reminded of every year.
Ligustrum japonicum shivers outside my window; not
from cold, but an attack of bees: Honey and Bumble.
They, enticed and tethered by its hypnotic sweet scent,
ravage and drink, humming hosannas in perfect key.
White corollas falling flurries present sacred offerings
for the soil bound; bounty from their nurturing deities.
Bombus with so short a time to live, a mere few days,
gifted their time now, at my window, to drink and sing!
Mother's unpracticed, pencil-script: “1938 Clell”
My Uncle Clell, nine...ten, thin and dirty blond;
a look of meek compliance; a tiniest of smiles.
“Please, Sir, I want some more.” comes to mind.
He, mother's charge, while Paul the youngest
still rode grannie's hip, rode the tail of mother's
sack, her child cotton-picking sack, dragged row
to row as an extra mass of whimpers or, at times,
glee in giggling flings of parched dirt and bugs,
as she pinched cotton from flesh slicing bracts;
tinged-pink white wads stuffed in dragged bags
through days’ searing, harsh yet banal rhythms.
Mother confided passed an ever-present sad smile
that getting just one orange on Christmas Day
was a delight sweeter than a day chore-free, but
one each for eight kids back then wasn’t cheap.
Clell struggled getting off the sack. “Me off, sis!”
But off, he did get “some more” through the years,
pulling hard, creating tales thought a joyful smile,
showering big sister with chocolates and oranges.
Of the eight siblings only mother remains, now
tugging gently her sweet sack of memories which
grows lighter and lighter each day as she awaits
her treat; the sweet, tart taste of promised reunions.
This book, this Book of Secrets, just revealed to me, lay with the others; hidden, dust stifled, antiquated, irrelevant, too long, too…piled in the “not now” bin. Thumbing through; “Crap! I knew all this!” I smirked,
but read another line, then more. Was I to truly believe that bracing you against a fall at the bathroom mirror as you wiped matter from your eyes, lamenting, what you perceive, as the taint of time upon your face, and
your burst of anger at your confused thoughts, and making one of my silly, hopefully calming, jokes and kissing your matted-hair head, eliciting a smile, a purr, almost, was my purpose, my nirvana? Maybe.
October’s crisp wind and golden sun long held hostage far into November finally made release, fled detention and Fuzz drags me up Chevelle Drive for our daily inspection of Redneckville joyful in his visions of scent pursuit, seeing things I can’t even imagine, while I chase just one untainted glimpse of bliss passed Grand Prix Blvd onto Bonneville and a beer-bellied neighbor pretends not to see us. “Great day!” I holler, loudly, eliciting a Sam Elliot limp like wave as he poses before a flittering Trumpbo banner. Suns’ warmth pulls us further up the hill through ditch’s trash and desiccate weeds expanding our collection of beggar’s lice and across from Really-loud-Mustang guys a cast off bag of Cuties, over-ripe delights, and I stand and peel and devour, for show. Fuzz in ecstasy jerks my leash to go and I clutching my rescued Cuties relent and grudgingly we retrace our happy steps the breeze hard against our backs, bittersweet, pushing me to end my brief get away and I pray, well, just hope, I don’t really pray, she did not forget and get up and fall. Yea! She’s fine reclining in her chair, alert buzzer not screaming, competing with the Bee Gees Jive Talkin‘ for the umpteenth time and “Hun, the nursing home called three times; I forgot how to answer the damn phone!” I always take the phone. Why not today?
Belated Words 