much heartfelt joy and pain
abiding in one frame.
Memories thrown out of sync
by others' states of current apathy.
A sense of some impending awful doom.
Camera into zoom.
The future calls.
Tackling too many sets
of high set, concrete walls.
is the easy part of grief.
They think that they can hide
the rest between their high-count
linen sheets. As if she'd never
lived to give them life. As if
her passing wouldn't dare
ascribe to them another
very painful right of passage.
used to be my brother.
Here inside my heart, I sought
to see the other that I used to know.
Who was it that had really changed...?
It was not only I. I spied a crazy
kind of light, just there, behind the
darkness gazing through his eyes.
A fanatic kind of fear that burned.
I looked at him. He glanced
and turned away. As if he had
become some kind of prey.
Running all too quickly, far away.
there, another face I dearly loved.
There was a time he used to be my son.
Connect the dots and find another knot.
Cancer swarming. Mother's warnings.
Trying to reach past insanity.
Graven deep in images of black and
white and gray. Trying to console
conditions, once inflamed in times
too far away to make a difference.
Yet there the difference stood.
Stronger than a concrete wall.
And now the difference stays.
Refusing still to follow her into
the safe reclusive vault that lies
within her grave.
once again into the eyes
of those who claim to be alive.
Seeing her insanity live on.
Knowing that my father played a part.
No matter any charm they use
to try to cover over the abuse.
It runs that way, in families.
Every generation claiming
to have changed it all.
Lost within the empty halls
of love that might have been.
always tried to be a friend to them.
But now that she has finally found
her end, it seems they never really
felt or thought that way of me.
And then reality is juxtaposed again.
Another lash. Too many for a whip.
Cutting deeper than the childish snips
of ugly memories abiding in the flesh.
Reaching up and out again in time
and space - right here, right now.
see - the interference wasn't hers.
She's gone more surely than the blur
of pain that lives within them. I know
she holds the angels hands these days.
She was no saint. Her martyrdom
was always thought inconsequential.
A sickness that she might have lived beyond.
If only she had grown more male, like them.
I stare into the pond. The image grows.
She never claimed to be a saint, you know.
all too human, after all.
Feeling all the sorrow of their falls
into beliefs that brought them no more
than those things they named their gross reality.
Feeling so much more than they
had ever yet allowed themselves to feel -
inside. Knowing too, that they
would never listen and believe
the lessons time and fate had taught her.
The wisdom that at last had brought her
far beyond the need to sink down
on her aching knees again.
God. No Christ. No crucifixion.
No manmade image formed of cruelty.
She rests her head upon her mother's knee.
The image faint, but oh, I cannot help
but feel the harmony she found.
Becoming more attuned.
Her ever-life abounding with the joy
she always knew that it was
meant to be. Her heart alive.
Her soul still flying free...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .