because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

they told me this was a poem

the notebook i burned that day i learned hate:
i wish i had those words again.

the one long coat i’ll never wear

and the books i’ll never sell, that sit damply expiring
in the back of the closet beside this box
(since they don’t all fit).

the nights you spend alone, every
one folded tight like an unused rain slicker.

my mother’s wedding ring.

my father’s Saint Christopher, the one
he wore for years after they told his sixteen-year-old self
he had a fourteen-percent-chance.

the Saint Jude i lit for the ones who didn’t, their names
melded to the bottom now.

all the poems i write but that no-one can see, and this one,
tucked underneath.

that picture frame she threw at me, before she could throw it:
those hours picking glass shards from skin i will
never get back.

11 responses

  1. coyotedolphin

    You are not alone
    I see you and feel you
    That was also my fire
    And my rage
    As the journal burned
    Those are my books
    In the closet, too
    But now I give them away
    People may not pay
    But they are deeply touched
    Who am I to judge?
    Like Mom and Dad
    We are here but a short time
    Someday..just medallions and rings
    And urned ashes on the mantel
    Keepsakes and memories
    But right now
    I see you
    And feel you
    You are not alone

    April 24, 2012 at 11:05 am

    • awww… thanks so much, Tiger. both for the words and the sentiment. hope life is treating you well, my friend. namaste.

      April 24, 2012 at 12:10 pm

  2. Wow…powerful ending. A strong and good write.

    April 24, 2012 at 11:30 am

  3. Peter Greene

    liked that one…

    April 24, 2012 at 1:32 pm

  4. dang great close on this one…the skin you will never get back…all the little touches of things along the way as well…treasures really…things you hate to lose…burned a notebook once…actually it was burned for me…and i still feel where it once grew from my heart…

    April 24, 2012 at 1:59 pm

  5. Discard the box and empty that closet. Completely.

    April 24, 2012 at 4:41 pm

  6. There are gems here, for example “the nights you spend alone, every / one folded tight like an unused rain slicker”, which compels the reader to the dark vision you have hear, starless and black as a folded-up raincoat… but the overall effect is cumulative, mesmerizing.

    April 24, 2012 at 10:55 pm

  7. ihatepoetry

    Hi la-poetessa – this was filled with many powerful images. I used to keep my memories in a box – but realized life was easier and lighter if I just kept them in my head. Now I’m trying to write them all, before my hard drive is wiped clean by dementia, a fine write this is. Your pal – el Mosk

    May 1, 2012 at 9:20 pm

    • dear Mosk, you do a helluva job of getting ’em down. much better than in a box, i’d say. πŸ™‚

      May 8, 2012 at 8:08 am

  8. “i wish i had those words again”

    Ahh, but I feel that way most of the time. Excuse while I read this piece again and drown in all the metaphors πŸ™‚

    May 2, 2012 at 11:50 pm

    • excused indeed! πŸ™‚ thank you so kindly.

      May 8, 2012 at 8:07 am


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