Her sentences where rivers once, meandering through marshlands, building into lakes and rushing rapids, heading for the sea. “Why was I never told, that mother’s dead?” She’s angry once again, her words are trapped in bogs in stagnant waters backwards flowing, in the moon-pulled tide. “She died when I was twenty one, I held your hand… back then.” I take her hand again, recalling how she handled chainsaws once. Now her hand’s a nestling, trembling spilling coffee. “Why was I never told?”, we’re trapped in mud. Dust on my fingers.
Claudia is guest hosting at dVerse poetics today… focusing on my own emotions… Beware of generalization and and join us all when the pub opens at 3PM EST.
November 24, 2015