the following is a poem that i wrote and shared last summer prompted by "unfinished conversations"...it is originally buried at the end of a long rambling post, so i decided to repost it on this day when we are celebrating our favorite Poetry Thursday contributions as a last community activity. and although i suppose it should feel odd to say, "this is one of my favorite poems," i want to say just that. we should love our own work, shouldn't we? yes. i am grateful for the words that help me heal each time i read them because this is the deep truth of experience. my experience.
*****
The Sunday before the Wednesday I was to see you
the conversation played
on a stage in my mind.
Knowing you would pretend to be irritated that
I had flown across the country unannounced
because you did not
want me to see you like this,
I would pull the chair next to your bed,
see your emaciated body,
and my hand would brush
away the hair around your face
like I did twenty-five years ago
right before I would smear Pond’s cold cream
across your nose, cheeks, and forehead.
I would tell you that I finally understood.
But then you died on Tuesday.
In their need for reason,
people said you chose to die
the Tuesday before the Wednesday I was to see you
because you knew I was coming and
you wouldn’t have
wanted me to see you like that.
Infuriated, I turned my back
on the words that meant nothing
to the open wound you left behind
that people saw as me, and
I sat in the darkness,
my throat choked with silence,
my fingertips filled with regret that I
did not brush your hair
the conversation played
on a stage in my mind.
Knowing you would pretend to be irritated that
I had flown across the country unannounced
because you did not
want me to see you like this,
I would pull the chair next to your bed,
see your emaciated body,
and my hand would brush
away the hair around your face
like I did twenty-five years ago
right before I would smear Pond’s cold cream
across your nose, cheeks, and forehead.
I would tell you that I finally understood.
But then you died on Tuesday.
In their need for reason,
people said you chose to die
the Tuesday before the Wednesday I was to see you
because you knew I was coming and
you wouldn’t have
wanted me to see you like that.
Infuriated, I turned my back
on the words that meant nothing
to the open wound you left behind
that people saw as me, and
I sat in the darkness,
my throat choked with silence,
my fingertips filled with regret that I
did not brush your hair
away from your face
when I saw you on
the morning of the Thursday after the Wednesday I was to see you,
when I heard your voice say,
It isn’t me.
the morning of the Thursday after the Wednesday I was to see you,
when I heard your voice say,
It isn’t me.
*****
i hope you will head over to Poetry Thursday to visit the Thursday post where participants shared their last PT contribution and then to today's post where participants are sharing their favorite post from their own Poetry Thursday archives.
