(no subject)
Nothing feels as wonderful as washing out the corners of my memory and wringing out the words onto my paper. It feels even more incredible to read those words to a room full of wondering, 20 pairs of eyes all fixed on me and my moving lips. Tonight I wrote about you; seething and bitter and spitting out your truth as I know it. My mind's that much more free, with those parts of you now floating around in that classroom, or in the heads of others.
Well, goodbye April, you really brought nothing but that complex search for clarity, (which is not what I asked for at all. )Nothing's even fully blossomed, not like last year; all those rows of bright red poppies reminding me of the raw between my ribs. Spring's got more time to prove itself, and I have a feeling May will be a great canvas for the sprinklings of what may come. We plan on throwing a spectacular party. Plus my Mom is visiting for a few days. Maybe the sun will even come out for more than a day.
It's been a month of violent dreams that keep their fingers wrapped in my thoughts all day; it's hard to shake those, vivid vingettes born somewhere deep in a part of me. They stick like waking memories; cold skin under the river, eight year old fingers picking spiders from her hair, shouting matches ending with you in a howling heap, your cheeks dripping dark red.
It's also been a month shining with some bright, (though not from the sun.) It's hard to find words for it, but it's all in those faces I see most days;fingers in the marbles of mancala, giggles bouncing above the banner to the rafters. The way Middle School pain tranfers into aggressive outdoor games, and I'm training my ear to listen for the differences between jokes and insults as they're shouted out through the persistent rubber beat of the balls. I love the way I've been asked to stay "one hundred thousand days." I love their shouts and waves and footsteps that follow me through the path. I love noticing the way their bones have grown since I've known them, and maybe they ways that I've grown too.
Apart or a part? that's what's been on my mind, and the only answer is I've got to learn to be both.
Well, goodbye April, you really brought nothing but that complex search for clarity, (which is not what I asked for at all. )Nothing's even fully blossomed, not like last year; all those rows of bright red poppies reminding me of the raw between my ribs. Spring's got more time to prove itself, and I have a feeling May will be a great canvas for the sprinklings of what may come. We plan on throwing a spectacular party. Plus my Mom is visiting for a few days. Maybe the sun will even come out for more than a day.
It's been a month of violent dreams that keep their fingers wrapped in my thoughts all day; it's hard to shake those, vivid vingettes born somewhere deep in a part of me. They stick like waking memories; cold skin under the river, eight year old fingers picking spiders from her hair, shouting matches ending with you in a howling heap, your cheeks dripping dark red.
It's also been a month shining with some bright, (though not from the sun.) It's hard to find words for it, but it's all in those faces I see most days;fingers in the marbles of mancala, giggles bouncing above the banner to the rafters. The way Middle School pain tranfers into aggressive outdoor games, and I'm training my ear to listen for the differences between jokes and insults as they're shouted out through the persistent rubber beat of the balls. I love the way I've been asked to stay "one hundred thousand days." I love their shouts and waves and footsteps that follow me through the path. I love noticing the way their bones have grown since I've known them, and maybe they ways that I've grown too.
Apart or a part? that's what's been on my mind, and the only answer is I've got to learn to be both.