Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Under thumb

For a year I only write about my father. 
Words pour out in streams. 
I am a jug filled with father thoughts 
until one day they stop 
and then every day I write 
about her, more than 365 days, 
all about her. 
It shocks me how many thoughts 
of her fit into a jug. 
How liquid they are until only some 
flow from me and then the very last ones 
dribble onto the page and it is over. 
I have not thought about him since the writings. 
My mind is empty. All was said. Everything, 
every last thought, said. 
I am now devoid of father thoughts, 
as if I had had no father. 
Then the jug fills up again, this time with mother thoughts. 
Every day I write about her. It shocks me.
Every day I tip the jug and from its spout pour
the rivers and rivers of mother thoughts. 
Sometimes it seems I will never run out but I do. 
The day came when the jug felt dry as baked clay. 
My mind on the subject of mother was empty. 
Now I see her name and my mind is blank. 
I am purged and clean; I am a motherless person. 
Then my man died and his death usurped. 
Everything I encounter connects me to his absence. 
I have been under that thumb for so long 
and I'm afraid to stop because he too will be gone. 
Out of mind, out of sight.