Early morning is the darkest,
all is hushed and mournful and folks
speak quietly so as not to rouse the day.
Dark air falls around, reminds me
that my skirt, sought
to envelop a thickening waist,
now falls slack against my hips.
There is nothing inside now,
no part of him lingers
in the musky tomb.
Darkness within, darkness without.
Is it possible to describe with words?
Words fail me, if so.
Surely there are those who have tried,
mounting the task as
if it were a wild horse, whipping
it into submission beneath the pens.
Does it remain unchanged in the taming?
Can the thing itself withstand
those lashings? Lenses alter
details, subtle hints of perception
impose themselves onto pure subjects.
I suspect that Hope tempts us, subconsciously we weave it
into unfurling words.
After all, Hope is something.
We're taught from infancy
we would be lost without it,
searching for an antidote
Still, hope does not exist
but for the very despair it seeks
I will keep despair then, for balance.
I will lock it inside
a clear cube and hang it from my neck, near my heart,
between my breasts,
and they will nurse it. Now and again,
I'll draw it close for examination.
I'll turn it this way or that, in the dark,
hushed morning, and marvel
at its nearness to me.
And when He has returned
himself to me, when again I am full
of us together,
I will exchange the contents of my cube with our
and return it to my heart
where it belongs. Snug in the spot
it stole from despair, my child
will stay for safekeeping,
while we move.
Do you remember us, we'll ask?
No, but I love you still.