Crone

Crone

Caught upon the strains of antiquity
Brought to subtle boil
Mark'd only by bouts of sleep
Tagged and winged in past error
This poison's potion turned me grey
And this life turned me crone.

What have I lost?
So much and yet so little.
Only pen's ink, needle's thread
And misted heart-drops in a vast ocean.

Crone and not-crone
Calligraphed here on my skin.
10/20/11

Descent

These things I attach, end-to-end
Crafted by my own hand.
I think only this will remain after I have gone
And even this disintegrates.
I must collect what lasts for now.
It is as if I pull magic trick handkerchiefs from my womb--
Even these pretty poses fade, and bright pictures rot.

I tried to bargain with the old Greek lady
But she said no.
I said: "You loved a man once, too."
And her eyes were knowing,
And I saw in her eyes the portrait of her young face.
And now I must bargain with dogs who live in the darkness
I must walk down alone, again, and deliver my missive in the room just before the room where they weigh hearts,
Where they say
"This one was good" and
"This one tried...but not enough."

I know better than to reason with Death.
Anubis, you are guardian of the in-between place.
Do not take her.
I walk into the Other Place to take you back.
Reason will not stay you, so action must.
You belong in the world above.
You are still needed.
I will crack the walls of this necropolis for love.
10/14/11

Disappointment

"I'm disappointed in you."
We say it as if there's always an expectation, a wall to hit.
As if we are a mirror of each other and one is supposed to make the other better
As if your failure is a shattered fragment of my own ego
With an infinity sign connecting the two.

One passes judgment on the other, because in them they see their own error:
A hoarse, strung-out vocal limping of a singer whom you knew was better,
A hoodwinked audience
Subjected to an instead-fizzled out drama and nonconfrontation.
We reach the hand inside our opposite and come up with nothing but heart.

I must admit, I had not known the poison of suffering as you did
Or walking a mile in your shoes.
I must admit it now.
But even so,
I was disappointed.
We chuckle this mouthful to ourselves, selfishly.

Charon

Charon

Usher to the other side
Unlikely midwife, birther of death
The last to see upon their leaving
We pay for safe passage.
To whom are we in gratitude?
To what are we still beholden?
You are not he or she with the answers.
Embrace the obscurity
and plunge.
10/9/11