With the practical
Slaughter of the past,
A smooth lullaby can be crooned;
One that secures and
Lets the child transcend
The dark waters that
Have swallowed her down.
I.
My earliest memory:
My father leaving,
One hand raised in frozen farewell
While his legs move under him
In slow procession away from the door.
This image caught—
Entangled like a dream inside a dream—
Is false.
False because it never happened.
False because it was conjured by
A two-year-old mind,
Straining to have
One
Defining
Moment
By which to live her life.
II.
The truth:
My father did leave, but not like that.
He left in stages with no clear edges.
Like a water color masterpiece,
He hung weightless in midair.
The past is relentless.
Seeping out of unseen pores,
It is placed before us
Dangling with awkward grace
And we spend our lives
Escaping
The one
Defining
Moment
In hopes that it will vanish,
Only to find that we are
Never very far from
The original
Wound.
