Being From Body

                         for the one we lost

The worst part is the blood,
taking so much away
with such fluidity, 

carrying broken tissue toward the earth, a flood of promise
pouring out, the inner face of the womb scoured so smooth
one would think nothing had ever grown here.  

The first fist of failure hits, not at the place of outpouring,
where gravity draws being from body, but in the mind
gears grind and crumble; uncertainty settles in. 

Colors leak into the air, born on scarlet tides;
the world spins into monochrome, fading,
a place of edges without objects.

The things held closest appear furthest away,
even when I can keep my balance, stand without canting
awkwardly toward ache.

Love’s familiar features dim beyond a layer of gauze,
no grays, no spots of color, as death
covers this small land.

The blood makes it obvious something was lost;
this lingering weakness belongs here, crafts a home
in my body with reason,  but the worst part is the blood

because blood lost will grow back, will plummet again
through my veins, hold me upright and leave me
without any evidence of loss.
 


                                    Published May 2009, in The Meadow


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