before, I was
the zodiac’s precocious
bubbles. glints in
the eyes of five year olds watching
summer skies, once upon
a somewhere. parents
told their children to reach
for me when darkness
came. i made dreams come
true. i was
eager, sure fingers; held
breath; and weight lifted
off shoulders. i was morning
rain in the desert and the
long-awaited exhale. i was
everything the world sometimes
isn’t.
i was the gooey
center and the purple pez
dispenser and the red clay
under the swingset in
Westwood. a messy miracle
of skinned knees and a brave
cry to stand the Hell back
up—the hope Mama had
for redemption—the light she
followed as she rose out
of the ash. a reminder—a bullet’s graze
next to her left temple. she
was still here. after two
babies gasped back
into twilight—slipped through
scorching metal back
into the abyss of not quite
here. that’s where she found
me. i was a push to keep
climbing—the little voice saying
“jump” and “harder” and “no—not yet.”
i whispered sweet
nothings of the
saved—the lies
of her childhood –that love is
worth it—that it exists
here in the wrinkles
of age. here—in this
smithereen heart. dig.
i am here,
still. I live
on a graveyard and pay
homage to your reflection—in my face. I am
your blue eyes and your gritted teeth. I am
failure. I am good intentions and one last
try and the only one left
standing. here. i am
your daughter. i get
the Hell back up. i dig.
and I find
you everywhere. i am
gasping, and i am
waiting. and i need
you, still, in this
shrapnel world. i am
breathing inside held breath,
and I am chasing
hailstorms. i am the phoenix
in the gooey center—dispensing
my heart and flinging
it at Daddy—as he bowls
with God in Heaven. i am
reaching, still, because
you can’t.
—AIM, 4/29/11
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