Sadness Doesn’t Stop At The Heart
It seeps into the shoulders, heavy
like wet sand
sliding slowly forward
until it crumbles away from the bank altogether
to slump in a fetal defeat.
Next it wraps its warm, sticky fingers
around the back of the neck -
like a chameleon on its branch - crawling, pulling,
gaining ground.
A slow progression.
Soon the forehead falls victim,
strapped back by zigzag pain
like caution tape
on a vacant land lot strewn with broken glass.
Then, deflated, it sinks to the wrists.
The tongue has to lay off its interpreters;
The hands are suddenly unemployed.
They don't know what to do.
Where to go next.
They are afraid, ashamed.
They hide
In pockets, in hair, and
the bags that eyes sometimes carry.
The eyes, accused
of shoplifting,
are forced to expose all they have.
Unfortunately today they were carrying the ocean.
It takes a long time to document all that water.
Security gets impatient,
eyelids always interrupting.
Still, it advances.
The feet receive it's lethal injection.
They say it's a painless way to go,
like falling asleep, really.
The feet have been so tired for so long..
they buy in.
The legs go numb in grief.
The belly hurls violent punches,
Reeling back,
Lunging;
A battle for breath.
Injuries toppling organs like evergreens,
forms face down in pools of warm, wet
red.
The one left standing has seen the lot.
And so, what was made to love
can now only grieve.
The saddest thing of all.
Close The Door On Your Way Out
I've never heard a phrase with more ambiguous implications.
No doubt you want the door closed for privacy. Why else?
For pet peeve? Oh honey, don't lie to me.
Privacy. Of course. But why do you feel the need for it?
Is it that you do not want me to witness what you do behind closed doors?
Because you don't trust me. Or else you don't trust yourself.
Is it that you know you are fragile and you don't want me to see you shatter?
Because you don't want me to know that you're weak.
But I know anyway. I know you cry when the door is closed. I hear you.
Soft tears are silent. It is violent weeping that can be heard through solid wood.
I know you shatter every time that door closes, and then you sweep up your tiny pieces, melt them back together with scalding coffee and cover the seams with a turtleneck
before it opens again.
I know the truth. So you need not hide it from me.
Perhaps it is not me you hide from. Could it be yourself?
The you that is outside of yourself is not afraid of confrontation and so she confronts you.
She stands on the other side of that door and she beckons to you.
And you want to understand that thing she keeps talking about...freedom, is it?
You want to understand how it feels.
But you are also jealous of her, so furiously envious.
You hate that you don't have what she has but you tell yourself that you hate her.
So you slam the door in her face.
Because then her radiant countenance won't tempt you. Then if she speaks to you,
you can tell yourself it's all in your head.
But this will be your undoing, because you'll have internalized what you think that you hate,
and you can't escape your mind.
Maybe I could help you. Maybe if I just didn't close the door next time. . .
That way I wouldn't enable your self-destruction.
That way I could stand behind the you that is outside of yourself,
so that when you convince yourself that it's all in your head, you'd see right through her and
you'd see me.
And because I am your daughter you might not slam the door in my face.
And I could say the same things that she does,
but because you love me you might listen.
And if you listened, you would hear
the truth. And the truth would set you free.
So tonight, when I fail once again to comfort you and
free you from your self-destructive self --
and you send me away and tell me to close the door on my way out --
this time I will not do what you say.
You will do what I say.
And when you've done it, you'll thank me.
Because when you've done it, you'll be free.