TW: self harm, religious domestic abuse
On beginning
as we usually do
in the early morning;
on rising early
to gather the eggs,
garner the harvest;
on gathering
long locks of hair
sewn tightly into bonnets;
on sewing
quilts adorned with
lifeless geometry & paltry paisley;
on adorning,
secretly, the bonnets with
blossoms pruned from grow;
on pruning
feverish thoughts
& mindful wandering;
on wandering
what lies beyond the creek
or wondering;
on lying
the view from the middle row
of the pastor's daily preach;
on preaching
pastures that we sow
the laborious fruit we reap;
on sowing
a stray & frayed thought
sprouts quietly from seed;
on straying
fingers clutched & wet, touch,
the ringing of a mother's mourn;
on mourning
eyes raw with penitent begging
for straw sky forgiveness;
on forgiving
yourself
this small act of rebellion;
on acting
browbeaten contrition, retribution--
it is endless;
on ending:
maybe this is how
angels are made
quietly,
in the space between worlds.
Aubrey,
You will never know the house
in L.A. with the 1975 Camaro in
the driveway and the mold on
the ceilings where your Great Grandfather
spent the last years of His life
yelling at
your Great Aunt through cottage cheese
dinners and post stroke
dementia. Or the
bonnets and single color
dresses to the ankles and the
washing the hair in the sink and
the chickens and the ducks in
the back yard and Mr. Ugly Nasty
who always got bullied by the
other ducks or the dead cow
we found floating in the creek
or the deer that said hello in the
back window while we were eating
dinner. And your earliest memory
probably
won't be hiding in the
tall grass on the farm, while your
mother rang the bell and called
your name and you sat there
alone in the grass, looking for just
a moment of peace.
Oh, Aubrey.
You will never get to break into your
childhood home to show a realtor the
birds that have nested in
the kitchen cabinets or the secret drug
den in the attic and the love that
did
not echo through the yellow living
room with the striped wallpaper and
the kitchen with the birds and the trees
and the long hallway.
You will not grow up with the woods
in your backyard that separated you
from all those tanks of gas waiting to
explode which will not end up being
a metaphor for the marriage you
were born into.
Oh, Aubrey.
Good for you, bud.