There is landscape between us.
I reach out,
and reach out,
and reach out,
and all I find is straws.
I find you filled with sawdust
when you are laying next to me.
You have become a scarecrow.
Still I try to put my hands in you
to find
if you have a heart in there,
and find you have transformed me
into Lavinia,
standing in a swamp
with my hands gone and tongue removed.
.....................................
You have taken away what I held most dear.
You have broken our silver thread.
I have found a crack in my silver ring.
I look at this house
and it has become enormous and echoing,
the distance between
upstairs and down is vast,
there is tundra between it.
I walk the Steppe just to come to you,
and still you recede,
you are a vanishing horizon.
......................................
Where my hands were there is what 'ought to be'.
How I ought to know you, I ought to be able to touch you,
I ought to bring you comfort, you ought to rely on me,
you ought to allow me the duty of a wife which is to be there for her husband.
You have raped me of that, stolen it from me.
Where my tongue was there is ashes and silence and a strangled moaning
from inside where it feels like my heart used to be.
Where it feels like OUR heart used to be, and the umbrella you put over it.
You used to protect it, now you defy it.

01/17/2009

Posted on 01/17/2009
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