To Miss

There’s no wedding to miss the bouquet tossing of,

no child’s head to wet, to lay a gentle kiss and introduce yourself to,

no traditional life events that warrant you being there.

Your daughter is not opening her own business

buying a house for a family to grow in,

picking out lace and ivory with a rock on a finger.

None of these things are in the mind of me,

never really have been,

and so those events that bring material the maternal

will not be there for you to miss.

But the moments when I want to throw a smile at

share a tear with,

laugh that cackle with the first person I always think to do so with,

those softest of glows that smatter themselves

through a life ordinary,

these are that which you will not be there to cherish to

and that this bitten broken bracketed me

just wants you there regardless,

as I cannot regard them with you not here moma.

I just cannot.

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What Now?

What is it you want?

Phrasing and the para’ of

swings the words to tones variable,

fleeces the heart or flogs the wits

depending on flight or fancy.

I slink back under covers that deny the day,

That refuse entry the light that wakes memory,

That speaks without sound of a new day to bare,

of a hand that wiped a face free of yesterday

and is determined to paint its day with newness,

time passed, new moments.

I want to tell it to do one,

to exit itself back into the night where time went,

stored itself as present and not past tense.

I want to tell it to fuck off,

to shut the hell up and quit bugging,

but it is a cheeked passing

and will not halt to my favours.

Just what is it you want?

I have not the energy nor the desire to find out.

The Loudest of All

The quiet.

Softened thoughts pillow smothered before made sound,

the feathers catching still at the back of my throat

ruffled

bent out of shape

bone splintered and lost from their use.

That catch of breath left caught,

held by fabric’d silencer

dampened

muffled

muted into submission,

or perhaps just bedded for now.

 

It’s the unbreathable,

the suffocation of controlled thought

which leans me,

unprompted unpropped,

an internal passing out

and continual semi-consciousness,

like I gauzed, paused,

self-induced silent to prevent full collapse.

 

My heart is bed ridden.

 

Tied down

weighted while that feather coughs itself,

now and then, into staggered breath

and stunted speech.

 

Such a light thing,

a deceptively floated way of being

that staggered me like whiplash

and has the power

the strength

to floor me should it will itself to.

External submission, internal asphyxiation.

The quiet.