‘I don’t know what to feel, she said,
now you know the truth,
How can this cloak of shame
that shawls my body,
scrape the bad feeling from my skin?’
Where are the sisters, brothers,
in psyche to reassure?
What is it when we reveal scars
that make us who we are?
Through windows, basin eyes
stare at mine, precious
manuscript blobbed in stains.
And who can tell if pain has learned
to smile? Easier to blame ourselves,
to break the occult code
on your soul. Head in arms,
muscled over piercing ears.
Hearing either wounds,
or heals the listener.
There are no accolades for
this epic journey,
bare labyrinthine thorns,
a broken bird lived – in faith
that love would come,
sea silk full with arduous baggage,
holding the key.
Across fields, buttercups
carpet grass, tiny cauldrons
filled with sun.
Within, a door stayed open.
The cow who listened, benevolent
eyes cushioned youth, flaying on
a makeshift swing.
But never mind those things
for now,
You are here, and
I am listening.
