Do you know where your son is? Your daughter? Does worry for them pour from your mouth like a cataract into the pool of your chest, racked open to the sky, your heart torn from its home there, its old path worn by the flood—gone, it seems, for good? This is where I know they once stood. Here—in this spot—they blew candles. As we try to get a handle on our world without them in it, we pray and still we wait and sit with the empty notes of our song echoing…echoing, then gone.
Are your words still with you? Did you carry your stories deep into the night and leave them like luggage on a railway platform, an age and more down silver tracks, with just the wind, the stars, and leaves like dust blowing and hissing in the dark? This silence leaves a fading mark. The thing that took you left your face in bodies unknown to you, lace filaments tracing what the eyes of others cannot see: the ties that generation takes away; the look in eyes that cannot stay.
What my friend Jeremy, of The Sand County, calls “boundary work.” Flirting with the edge of meaning, loss and memory.
Do you feel the rain where you are?
Is there water there in the far
reaches of memory? Does time
fall through the air, like brittle rime
crusting the sea? Is this weather?
Tenuous shifts of the tethers
that tie us, each to our own place?
I stand in the rain, raise my face
to the falling sky as my sight
becomes a part of the pale light
that is left to us, and wonder
how we can all be so sundered
and still hold together all this
madness, beauty and darkness.
[a series I have been working on] [part one can be found here] I wonder--did those strange scents jar your memories and dreams toward unseen collisions with silence, that wrong kind of quiet made dense with soft specific sounds that spell a place far deeper than our well- used alphabet of ancient objects? Our limbic world just disconnects over time. Our temporal selves get disheveled. Cerebral shelves do not suffice any more. We strive to hold things in place, but see only place-holders and when age eats worlds, the words fall off the page.
[from a series I have been working on] How many times did you wake up in the night, find an empty cup and wonder where your mind used to be, your self alone and just you in the bed, and just the one bed with unfamiliar sheets, your head on a strangely scented pillow? I would have brought her there, you know, for you to hold, and not for me. You needed her more. I can see that now. I would have stood close by, just a ways, and averted my gaze; let you have your time alone as I tried not to turn to stone. ...no, I'm not "Missing part 1"... ...this is "part 1 of 'Missing'"... ...puttin' the Po' in NaPoWriMo...