Broken crystal shattered across the floor
prisms of light blinking out – forever gone.
as darkness slips over the furniture,
refracted glitter –
so lie the pieces of my heart.
As a child, night terrors were sent scurrying
by the broad sweep of my father’s arms –
bringing back the crystal sheen of safety and warmth,
his finger gently wiping away tear’s glistening on my cheeks,
letting me know there was one person in that terrifying world
who could send monsters scurrying away from beneath the bed.
Here, an orphan of middle-age extraction,
with no Daddy to wipe my tears
I stand helpless, my fumbling fingers quivering
as I stumble upon shards of glass
raggedly thrusting into my darkness
as I look for answers to age-old questions.
Not able to strike a flint
to illuminate the deep chasm of midnight’s void,
or encourage the wisp of a kerosene flame
to thrust back the clammy darkness
of a cavern’s awesome void,
that echoes in the
space of my childhood heart.
I lost the flare –
I can move through the motions well enough,
but, my feet torn jagged
from slivers unseen in the dark,
my child staring with eyes that can’t see –
sharp edges, piercing through the deep,
to stab the tender spaces of my soul.
You never heard me,
Nor I, perhaps, you.
words were disjointed, convoluted,
making no impression on the other.
All those many words,
a decade’s worth,
and still we couldn’t hear . . .
So now our words
are born witness
through the lips
of an interpreter
in weekly sessions.
Can you hear me now?
Or are you still
hearing me speak in tongues?
As a child I learned the rage
of a woman whose life
had been supplanted
by the needs of others.
I fearfully watched, tiptoed,
practiced walking so my footfalls
left no sound, the prints left no trace
so as not to provoke, to bring attention.
This woman whose life
held more horrors than mine,
which had twisted her soul,
corrupted her heart,
so she had no choice
save to learn the ways of men
and do them better . . .
It was her only hope.
But I find no solace
in the answers of men.
Life seems too bleak, too crushing,
when lived by their ways.
Yet those are the ones
which grew in me,
anger for anger,
pain for pain.
My children sleep in their beds,
seeking my lightness of touch,
begging for my arms to
encircle them in warmth
so they are strengthened
and approach life
with love and balance.
The richness of their potential,
of the beautiful spirits
resting within them,
cannot be wasted
on the futility of looking without.
They cannot be destroyed
by angry eyes and venomous words
which crush fragile spirits
before they are buds
meant to bloom.
Let my anger become love.
Let my pain be the understanding
inherent in their nurturing.
Let me be the softest of blankets
They can wrap themselves in
To blossom and grow
Without the burdens
Their foremothers carried within.