He was right --
it does get better
then
h a r d
again,
but hard
in a different way
with me grown better,
more aware
(I am finding new spaces
of peace in my body, some kind
of kindness and quiet grace that
I am discovering; I have learnt
to listen, I can hear my own silence
and my weeping without tears,
the stories my spine is writing,
the shuddering of my tired teeth,
and the weary words of my bones).
He was right --
when joy returns
after this long grieving,
this dull dispossession,
this journey of loss --
when joy returns
it does become
rich
like aged wine
; a texture that I
would never
have known.
I must just
keep my head
above water.
Must be kind
to myself
despite these
tired limbs.
His Kafka and Kundera
and practical-ways-to-face
this sadness the size of a sun
slip under my skin
when I am not
paying attention.
He thinks he
has committed
Borges' sin;
so have I.
We have not been
Happy. These shadows
follow us through time.
He thinks Borges
was born with some
primordial wonder.
So was he. And me,
I hope I can rewrite
this grieving, this
intellect that mouths
words while my heart
withers in its cage --
I hope I can find some
primordial, cardinal
wonder of my own.
I know now I will not
be able to keep it safe
within the confines
of words - but I hope
I can find it
again and
again,
hope I can live it
so fully
it never
leaves.
In a way.
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