To some degree
you’ve always done
the things for which
your dad and mom
to have you do
had some or other
kind of need.

To cry,
when no one noticed
your true hunger
or your thirst,
or when you had a body need
to let stuff go
or to slow
a cut or scrape
or hole that too long,
too fast bleeds,

To be staunchly contrary,
when you weren’t given
space or time to be yourself
or say the things you had to say
to keep you feeling
steady, well,
in free-flow movement
or grounded, solid, stationary.

To ask
for help
when faced with
some dauntingly-tough task,
for which the answer
did not lie
in the realm of the apothecary. . .

To break out loose,
be late,
take risks,
be bold,
when the place
within your home’s neat gate
was nothing like a nurturance
to shield you from the
cruel, wide world–

it did not seem
a likely refuge,
let alone a sanctuary. . .

And when they said
they’d finally
make it up to you
all the hurtful stuff they did
or crucial things they did not do–

Yes, even then,
you moved to do
the very thing they’d need you to–

to stand
in your own honest self,
scan well the package
that they claimed to sell,
and go forth with caution,
as at a changing yellow light
that warns of red to come,
and begs you pause,
and hold yourself
in stance on guard,
at least a little wary. . .

And when they died,
you cried and cried
like heaven
and like hell,

and also,
thanked good God for them,

and did your best
to sing for them
a beautiful and fitting hymn,

and blew a kiss
to bid goodbye
their beautiful, but mortal, shell,
scattered in ash
or in our solid,
age-old Earth
peacefully buried,

and you wondered
whatever your life
now can mean
and how it’s really
meant to feel,
when you come at last
into your own,
as you continue, from now on,
much more alone,

and though you know
it’s in this way
life naturally flows,
it is still unsettling
and very deeply scary.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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