Broken: a poem in parts
I. Clouds
my fist can’t break
through the paper bag of
my thoughts, tree rings leading
only to themselves. (what do my words make) since
this straw hat keeps the light
out of my eyes the heat
empties out of my head in ribbons that
tie knots in the air
there is work to be done
things to hold onto
blesséd gossamer threads
to stick to something, anything
strong enough to carry the weight
of my thin filament.
II. Do you love me
The question marks
my anxiety, establishes
the border between
that which is and cannot be
said without compromise
and fear held without conquest;
but oh, so lonely, with nothing
to say.
III. Rosebush
How peacefully do these waters fester
Held at bay by the strength of men
The hand of man immortalized in concrete slabs
And the city beneath that most mighty palm
Sifting nonchalance within itself
Unaware of the danger in a trickle.
And you, a buttress breeched, must hold back the ocean’s tide
In the face of the moon, must dam yourself unto yourself,
A broken spirit flooded into the chaos of equilibrium.
IV. Mourning Lovesickness
At first, I told myself
that it was my heart
sunken into my belly
that shook my stomach
every morning, dragging
me down to my knees
before this porcelain altar
to spill my guts.
I am lovesick,
me said, searching
the water for heart-chunks
among the morn’s vomit,
so sick of love
that I came head-bent
before a toilet as if in
daily ritual prayer
over some gestating sacrifice.
As the anger waned,
the pang in my belly grew,
each morning’s release making room
for divine intervention,
the sanctity found only in sin;
My knees buckled
to better carry the weight
I couldn’t stand.
V. Broken
Everything seemed to come
down in pieces. Even the rain
fell like glass: as if her soul had fallen
like a brick through some window
in heaven. She, with no umbrella
left, to wade sole-deep in a sea of piece
and fragment, shard and crumb.
Rain spilled from heaven’s floor like mop water,
in thick, heavy strings—yarn
that poked persistently at her dogged body
as though she were a needle. Drops reaching into her
stomach like a bullet. A slug, this bellied burden, whose growth bore
down and into her with each dribble of fallen cloud,
each fleeting dash of rain. She could not escape:
there were icy puddles in the pockets of her raincoat
that drowned her clenched, knotted hands.
Still, the clouds extinguished themselves above her,
bleeding drop by drop, resolute in their confusion
to empty as well as fill. Maybe standing
in the midst of it all,
she understood.
She, drenched and jeweled, beaded with rain,
baptizing the strange fruit of sorrow. Rainwater broke her
cheeks and crawled through the tracks of her
years.
Her eyes were dry,
now.
