Lament

All posts tagged Lament

Geisha

Published January 17, 2013 by rlmcdermott

She was a dangerous girl
all darkness
kept in a shoebox in his closet

at night she’d listen to his heart
a glass harp
played by holding her hand
just above his breastbone

this is love she thought
this silence
this slow descent into suffering
this dancing on the edge of a glass
eyes closed arms akimbo
splintered feet bleeding

she wouldn’t have it any other way
this music
this dance
this love

in the spring
there will be cherry blossoms
walking in her favorite garden
camellias and the eastern sunIPHONE GEISHAA

Autumn

Published September 11, 2012 by rlmcdermott

Everything
happens
in the fall;
all loss
is in a leaf–
yellow and gold
to the ground.

Even
tall buildings
must fall;
three thousand
hearts and you
in one hour–
autumn.

Two things
juxtaposed,
whose pain
is greater
the leaf’s
or mine;

Falling,
falling,
falling
into the
bright
September
sun–
everything
happens in
the fall.

The Wounding

Published August 31, 2012 by rlmcdermott

waiting for something
that’s finally come
there’s an art to that
that wanting
the hard wood of it
no sound except
my own breathing

not sure if the
sound of it is mine
cell rubbing against cell
transfer paper against stone
names dates relationships
the artifacts of a life
my life dreaming itself

It’s all about death

Hieroglyphics on my skin
numbers letters signs
signs and wonders
all against my skin
burning into my flesh
words everywhere
none making sense
lost love
lost life
what mattered most was the dream

did I dream it all
family friends art life
was it worth standing still

is this what Eurydice knew
when she hoped he would turn around
not to go back
not to have to live again
the constant feeling of failure
the waiting
the questions
is it here
is it today
will it be tomorrow
how long
how much longer

and then it’s here
and you’re not afraid
just sad
waiting does that to you
and then the god touches
you on your shoulder
and says he has turned around

Late Bloomers

Published August 22, 2012 by rlmcdermott

if I told you I’d be there

would you find
the wooden bench
the white camellias
the cherry tree
would you ask my name again
and lift your face into the sun–
exactly as you did that day

would we walk along the garden path
beneath the overarching trees
and listen to the insect’s song
the thrum of things so small
that only lovers hear their
extracorporeal hum

we are too late for love
too late for all the silly things
the longing
the sweet regret
the silences
the sudden rush of words
and yet we’re here
too old to hold each other’s hand
too young to walk apart

if I told you I’d be there

would I wait alone
beneath an autumn sun
would I look up and see you there
beside me on the wooden bench
a white camellia in your hand

Eulogy for a Blue Hydrangea

Published August 2, 2012 by rlmcdermott

The grass
knows your
name and
the flowers
growing in
the meadow,
stand upright,
and turn
their faces
toward you.

They are
all color
and seed
your heart
until nothing
can grow in
it but blue
and purple
and gold.

To be alone
and dying
is what they
do everyday
without complaint.
Their stems
bend and break,
everything is
done in silence,
even you pause,
sinus, in the slow
autumn afternoon.

Medusa

Published July 31, 2012 by rlmcdermott

A gorgoneia,
she could
not save
herself,

the smell
of baking
bread coiling
through
the cave,

her sister’s
laughter
and then
another
sound–
footsteps.

Even
the snakes
were
frightened

hissing
in the
nest
of her
hair,

she could
not comfort
them–
her own
heart
pounding.

She looked
at him,

her eyes wide
with what
was blinding
about her,

and waited
for his
bright gaze.

A shield,
a sword,
then all
was stillness.

Finally,
her
sisters
calling
her name
and then
a sound
escaping
from her
own mouth–
wings
and
hoofbeats.

The Witnessing

Published July 31, 2012 by rlmcdermott

They are coming
to sell me Jesus
knocking on my door
in the late afternoon
as the sun slowly
retreats from the
apartment’s tiny alcove.

I still myself for God
knowing he would never
knock so conspicuously.
Brightly-colored pamphlets
sharpen their teeth against
the men’s rough hands.
Those hands mean no good–
they push at words
like they would push at me,
fleshy and insistent, always
wanting their own way.

They will take who I am
and sell it. For sale:
the alcoholic father,
the abusive mother,
the days of anger, terrible
words and blows, Sundays
barricaded in a shared
bedroom forced to whisper
the rosary because she said so.

They can have it–
the name,
the unsocial security
of compensations
that have outlasted
dangerous times.
I am a veteran
of my own pain;
stolen from life
by bigger enemies
than these small men–
who would covet a name
that means remembrance?