my father is holding me,
i cannot feel.
my world is distorted,
nothing is real.
my brother is crying
i cannot see.
i’ve clawed out my eyes,
and i’m down on my knees.
my mother is gasping,
for air she can’t taste.
her heart is slowing,
oh what a waste.
of laughter and sunlight.
of nature and mother.
of resilience and freedom,
one daughter to another.
my ears are ringing,
in a false key.
for the rest of my life,
i’ll wish it was me.
“She’s dead now… a great woman, you know,”
You’d say once more
About your dear friend Angela Lansbury running to and fro,
Playing Jessica Fletcher with another murder to solve
With you, nestled in your chair as neglected coffee runs cold.
Although she was still breathing, we learned to never say,
As every time we would be swatted away.
Each visit we’d listen to your usual disdain:
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
It was impossible to escape your famed refrain.
Resting on an ashtray, a faithful companion was always by your side.
That one, one of twenty blue,
And you, one of fifteen.
From your childhood at Abbey View to your finale at Bishop Street,
Family never strayed too far, it always felt complete.
But now the clouds of grey have faded,
The box is laid to rest
Beside your dearest love Tommy,
Where your souls remain reunited and blessed
Stars shine like eyes,
Specks of cosmic dust
Ever present in the
Blackest, darkest night.
Visage that lights up the heart,
Mirage of days future past.
Eyes that pierce the soul,
Rekindle the flame
Forgotten so long ago.
Oasis, amongst a desert of ice.
Eyes, aurorean beams
Which fill the northern sky.
I asked her for a dance,
Under the naked ceiling
Of the universe so vast.
May stars of Perseus witness,
As entangled dancers, we fall
To rise and shine again.
And while we dance,
Please hold my hand…
And while we fall,
Please don’t take long…
Annie Edson Taylor
Wanted to be first over the falls
A school teacher from New York
She was gonna’ show them all
She had a custom barrel made
But first tested it on a cat
The poor thing plunged over the falls
It had no say, cause that was that
Luckily the cat emerged
A little tattered but still alive
So on her 63rd birthday, 1901
Ms. Taylor, finally took her dive
They called her Queen of the Mist
Queen of the Mist
The first to conquer the falls
But in real actuality
The cat deserved it all
The glory, the title, the award for the first
The cat deserves it all
Cause the Queen of the Mist, the Queen of the Mist
Was the second to conquer the Falls
She peddled her wares for many a day
As souvenirs, to passers by
‘Til her manager ran off with the famous barrel
And the detectives bled her dry
She swore she’d never do such a feat again
That once, was already too much
They say she lived from hand to mouth
And the fame was never enough
But the tawdry cat he lived the life
Fat on rats and crumpets and tea
Everyone wanted to know the cat
Who was famous, as famous can be
Sometimes you can hear them play their jazz
Near midnight along the old lagoon
They call him King of the Mist, King of the Mist
And so they wrote him this tune….
Autumn had taken all my leaves
My lilies had shed all their petals
And death reigned onto my valleys.
A screeching silence stretched in all directions;
All my journeys were lost
All my dreams had shrunk
I stood aloof in my desolate hive
When you happened, dear.
You.
You lent me a breath of spring
My dear, you held my palm with your soft lush
Like you knew all about my wretched soul.
You kissed me to sleep that night
And all of the milky way fell from the sky
All its whiteness, all its shine
You shared your sight with my empty gaze,
and you made me look
You made me look at you
And I saw you, dear
As clear as a moonshine
As bright as the brightest supernovae
I saw you explode
Into a million colours and shades
And you made me see, my love
You made me see.
You bloomed into me like it blooms once a century
And yet, you were finite.
I could hold you
I could touch you
I could hear you giggle
I could rub my nose onto your cheeks
And watched your hair float.
You, my dear
Made my soul ache again
My thunder to roar again
You fell over me like the first rain after a dropless summer.
And we soared.
We soared high on your wings
Higher than we ever have
Like there was no tomorrow.
You scream at me, you’re mad
I’m calm
I try to explain
Your Face is red, liquid fills your orbits
You are tired
Later I will be tired too
You’re mad because you shot at me
And I took your weapons
You’re mad because you called me stupid
And I took your games
You scream at me, you’re mad
I try to explain
I can’t quit my chained maiden
Who pliés around the welkin
From stone to stone, and crater
To crater, hypergolic. She spins
And laughs, I swell with love. I call
Her a reminicantagonist, a futurephiliac
But as she always does, she floats
Ahead. Skipping, stone to stone,
Alpheratz towards Canis and his son.
She knows what will come next,
She’s lived it before. This is her
Purgatory. Andromeda and Canis,
Jezebel and Jehu, my women and
The wolves that eat her. Over and
Over she comes to me, a single
Match in her silken palms. She
Runs it against my desiccated elbow
And its flame becomes our north star.
She dances with paleticocity, she will
Love, and yet the dogs always find her:
Analgesiacally, angelisctically painful.
Object permanence: The understanding that objects continue to exist even when they cannot be seen, heard, or otherwise sensed. This is a fundamental concept studied in the field of developmental psychology, the subfield of psychology that addresses the development of young children’s social and mental capacities.
When we are children, we play a game with those we love. They put their hands in front of their face, and we think they are gone forever. When they reappear, we are delighted and laugh at the silliness of thinking they had disappeared. We learn they are right around the corner, just beyond our sight, and they will reappear.
So, what happens when they don’t?
It’s been years, and I still can’t believe I won’t hear her voice again. She must be on the other end of the phone, just beyond the buzz of the line. I can feel her old crow grip on my arm, demanding my full attention. How can it be that she is gone, that I am imagining her? How has time passed so slowly and yet I existed on the same plane as her only yesterday? Where is the veil I can lift?
I feel like I am still a baby, waiting for her to lower her hands and I can laugh with her again.
The suspense is killing me…
Goodbye Will Never Leave My Lips (24)
No matter what, I will never say goodbye
Goodbye is too final.
Rather I prefer until we meet again.
You’ve taught me everything I know
Knowledge more valuable than gold.
The loss of you is the end of my existence
And the continuation of yours
I’ll spend the rest of my life embodying the person you were
I’ll wrestle you from death’s hands
For just one more moment together
Until you could teach me everything I needed to love and live
The only approval I need is yours.
When I finally have to say “Until we meet again”
I will live looking for you in every moment
Live a life worthy of telling you about
Hoping I could be a sliver of the person you are
But never will goodbye leave my lips.
cleaned out your sewing box the other day
in the dark corner
behind the basement stairs
that I’ve been afraid of since I was a child—
the ancient singular pull chain
lightbulb dangling
from the wooden beams, and cobwebs
strung like Christmas
lights across the ceiling,
the box had been sitting there
since you died and no one else wanted it
and Dad couldn’t throw it away
because we cling to objects like they are people
because I needed a home
to place my thread
and buttons
and those sharp little silver pins
that get everywhere and become embedded
into the carpet like hidden daggers
that stab your sole when least expected
and make you swear to God
because the pain is too much
I cleaned out your sewing box
and I was reminded of your smile
quick to place a kiss
Revlon fuchsia
sticky
and loving on the cheek
and I missed your lipstick stain on my face
that I endured and scrunched my nose at when small
and I was reminded of your scent—
warm spiced lavender
mint toothpaste
fabric softener
and grapefruit
and vanilla ice cream on Sundays
in the kitchen, the prophetic carved cuckoo clock
ticking away our time in the corner
and I loved and grieved you all over again.
