Wood slats rot in a muddy flood pool.
The door jamb has been knocked away
from the frame. I cannot remember my own name.
My head is on backwards. The cat begs
when he's already been fed. Why are my
eyes in back of my head?
The woman waits with her bags packed.
Meds will be divvied out as prescribed.
There is winter debris an eighth of an inch
thick and the paint will soon be chipping away.
It's been four months since the departure of
fall. I'm surprised I survived winter at all, though
apparently, I'm not dead.
My head is facing the opposite direction.
I question the possibility of resurrection.
A crocus fights its way to break soil.
Blood boils and eyes flame. What is the
name I am called? When autumn came, I buried
myself beneath fallen leaves, then
the ice, my breath the only means to warmth –
and now a swarm of bees already seek
the nectar from a peaking bud. I trudge through
a bed of mud, boots caked, heart-ached, pull
splines from a mine field and attempt to nail
the boards back together. I am an unhinged gate,
my fate not unlike a broken levee, swamped, downed,
drowned in a crimson pool, fooled by my spine
which is not behind but, instead, in front of me.
Why is my head on backwards so I cannot see
the direction of my feet? I repeat my plea –
Turn me back around! Turn me back around!
Did you hear the clear whistle of the train?
When the rain stops, I'll find the platform.
Maybe I'm dead but the coroner has not shown.
The woman sits alone. She waits with her bags
packed. The exact moment of departure has
been calculated. None of us are elated by the
plan. Damn the clock! Damn the minute hands!
I was so hopeful before when the more I played
music, the more harmony. But now just look at me.
My head is turned around backwards and I cannot
see my feet. I repeat the turn around plea.
We are one more decision closer to the nth degree
of separation, each doubt, each conclusion, a
hesitation, then a proceeding. It is with the meter
I am pleading. I turn the metronome off.
These are observations before or after the departure.
It is almost time now. I hear the hum of what for.
The gate is broken. I open up the door.
.....
footnote - wrote this a few minutes ago. I don't know what it means so if you do, either tell me or keep it to yourself so we can both be in the dark.
but it strikes a cord with me: the theme of seeking renewal especially.
