Failure (2)

06/10/2011 § Leave a comment

I imagine your face
by looking at my reflection
and in my reflection you are
always about to cry.

Why is that?

I tried to forgive myself of your crime;
raised a hollow pyre
out of all the things you’ve taken
or held back from giving—
but I am afraid to light the match,
so very afraid.

Why is that?

I remember the ashtray.
Because you drank, because
she bought the wrong kind of cigarette,
out of glass and ash you created a grenade.

“FUCKING WHORE!”

I buried my sister’s face in my hands
and waited. When all was quiet
I peeked with one eye through
the door held ajar;

on the sofa you slept the sleep of the just
with blood on your knuckles

while she,
choking out the din
of her own despair, swept the floor
lest her children should cut themselves
on the jagged ruins of her marriage.

She has failed valiantly, lovingly.
This was my salvation; a private Golgotha.

But to think of my own failure:
how childish and small my hands had been
to cover all the corners
in a beloved‟s face.

(Winter 2010)

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