Narrative on a Wound

The wound, the wound. You know that bearded man, the one who died? The one who died angry, who wrapped himself around me and I led him out? Well it’s been a year now and I’ve been angry (again). He never said good bye.

(no) superhero

Grief and joy are opposites. Except that grieve is the preferable word because it is not static. And if you let it live all of its lives, joy is a word that whispers constantly. And softly.

Swirling Place

… and all those around you
stand as they will.

Onwards

And then the cyclists
raise me upward.
Consume my eye.
They are waterproof
neck to ankle.
Onwards they pedal.
Onwards their eyes
say to me.

I hear the feeling

That pain and imperfection bring me joy because. 

Level

Hurt and heal.
Repeat.

Validation

And now we step together. Trip and fall. Hold each other’s hand.
Down the stairs and back up again.

Altar

I didn’t intend to build an altar. I don’t worship. But I knew what had to stand in place of that guitar. And I know honouring now, like I did not before. Like a parent, I guide and narrate what is left of me – what grows – now that there is no body with which to commune.

I am a Witch

I asked death to wrap itself around me.
It passed through and I crawled out.

It turns out

The sweater is just a sweater. The coffee shop is a place I have been many times, with many people. And today it is three years but I will not weep for that.