They say I'm a healthy weight, and I am sober.
But there is always a past.
One where I took full advantage of living outside of my cage.
For those few nights. That one summer.
I let them tear into me like meat.
Sour, chewed apart and feeling I was whole.
Arms dropped, sewed to the sheets.
Their warm hands feel like a scrape across the inside of me.
Just the sight of a bottle and a dark corner,
and I'm digging the staples out.
There is room for you, when I can keep it safe.
You would have grown up angry, in a cold winter state.
Or as a lunatic on these littered streets.
And you are too magificent.
I pictured my belly, big with life.
I was shaking, rocking us to sleep at night.
Given chances, too many. Every birthday is haunting.
In the spring, I am useless until your return.
I am good, I keep repeating.
Then I feel you tug a little at my swollen eyes.
Small hands across my cheek.
I still turn to the wall at night,
and whisper to a gentle god i've conjured up.
I've never seen an angel. All of this water I drink won't help.
And I can't swim very good. In mud, whiskey
or this pillow.
I couldn't let you down where I was headed.
It will be golden when you come. Leaves and sun.

03/24/2005

Posted on 03/25/2005
Copyright © 2025 Kimberly Rhode