Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Wednesday, February 09, 2011

The Painted Swing

The cold takes my breath,
but I concede, give myself
to the strength of worn slats,
grooves made by the many
throughout the years.

I embrace the feeling.
Between hormones and liquor,
the hard cold is a relief
embraceable and real.

I say, into the phone propped
on shoulders drooping more
each year, I had to do it,
Mom. It's my job. I had to enter
the room my father died in, pay
attention to the words of another
in that bed where his life ended,
become a vehicle, a lifeline,
the mourning daughter
an aside.

And I can't write this poem
because I am thinking
it is a poem and only a poem.
But it is not. It is a life.
It is many lifes.
It is about life.
And. That's all.