Soapbox

This poem is about a migraine. I know, it doesn't make any sense. Sorry. Nothing does when you have a migraine.
Oh, and I've been reading a book about Homer's "Iliad", so…

It’s like falling off the edge of the world,
being swallowed by stones,
peeling off most of your skin
and bumping around on your bones.
Intelligent thought flees like a shadow,
time randomly stops and starts,
no sound exists but the screaming pulsation
of your  own incoherent heart.
All proud defense is reduced to ash,
and the scarlet scent of defeat,
Only agony lingers as each panting breath
sings like a knife through your teeth.

Alas, poor Troy, your mighty gates sundered
by no army camped outside
but swiftly and silently from within
where synapse and neuron collide.
Weep not, fair Ilium, for the effort of tears,
the mere sound as they drip through your hands
will set your ragged teeth to bleeding,
and fill your heart with sand.
Too late to offer burnt sacrifice,
all vision is burned away
in flashes of scarlet and aubergine thunder
as the angry gods join the fray.

But by and by, the chaos recedes,
for gods weary of the sport of war.
When there is strength left over from mere survival
and rational thought is restored,
you pull yourself out of the creaking rubble,
limp over the broken stones,
through the debris of your sense of control
and the lingering reek of brimstone.
You peer beyond the gates, the flag
of truce at last unfurled
to gape at how easily life went on without you
while you were falling off the edge of the world.

(I actually have no idea what to call this, but the software really wants me to title each piece.)

At first, he seemed to have been erased completely
I reached for him, but all I could catch
 was the echo of a slamming door.

After a time I began to glimpse him occasionally,
a distant figure across a crowded room-
a wisp of smoke lingering after his passing.
But the more eagerly I reached
the more elusive he became,
a floating leaf always just out of reach of grasping fingers.

Gradually I have learned to become still and open
to rest in the peripheral spaces between then and now,
let my glance slide away,
allow time for the back eddies to circle around once again.
And when I do, sometimes, he is so close I can hear the whisper of his breathing.

His presence grows more substantial with the passing years of his absence.
Some days I believe that if I can become quiet enough
I can lay my hand on his rough cheek again,
my head against his chest,  listen to his heart,
rest within the warm, safe circle of his arms once more.
I think that, one day,
probably when I am holding some future grandchild in my arms
I will find myself sitting on his lap once again
and his fingers will smooth that child’s sweaty curls,
whisper her name like a love song.

For Amy, and everyone who wishes they could go back and try again.

If I could go back,
If I could have that day again
or even just an hour of it,
I would do it all differently-
by which I mean, I would keep it exactly the same-
but I would see so much more this time.

If I could return to that day
standing on the porch
watching you walk toward me, up the stairs
hands stuffed in your pockets,
tossing back your hair and grinning at my pleasure in seeing you
it would all be different,
because this time I would know that every moment matters.
We would sit and talk, laugh and walk,
I would hold your hand in easy companionship
just as I did the first time,
but among the jokes and chatter
I would try to hear what you weren’t saying-
The loneliness, the confusion,
and let you know that you were safe with me.
I would speak and smile from the heart, brush the hair out of your eyes
(your hair was always in your eyes)
and really listen to you.
I would memorize all of you- the timber of your voice,
the tilt of your head, graceful curl of your fingers in your lap,
even your untied shoelace-
I would lock it all in the amber of memory
to wear around my neck like a golden charm.

And when that day came to an end once again
I would let you go once again,
hold back my tears at the knowledge of what the future holds for us
because I know it can’t change that,
can’t change anything, really,  except the way I feel today.
But first, at the last,
I would look in your eyes and let you know that,
in that moment, someone really saw you
and was unafraid to let you really see them too.
And maybe, hopefully,
that would be enough.