under jacarandas — a tiny poem

on the street of jacarandas

you did yourself in

27 years of silent penance


always hoping in the haze of purple

overhead, the blossoms dropping, the drip

rain in the husk’s rebirth

the 100 baby trees each spring


until the year the rooms closed down on you forever

until the walls screamed their wreckage back

of years blown by in the breeze.


Your teeth grit down hard on the ruin he made of you

or the ruin that you let him make

the house walls recording the error

in their quiet watching


there are no words for the selfishness of that

no words for what good you tried to give

& where your teeth grit themselves steely hardest

harder into the bleakness of this terrible error

it’s into that pain you find the doorway

& the whole of the sadness begins to give way


like some barren wreck, a wretch

of driftwood pushing itself back out to sea


you look back, once

it’s over your shoulder when all the flowers whisper overhead

in a purple flutter, petals pushing out, petals dropping down

petal tears that dried in winterwinds


all your goodness that he stripped

it starts to return into vein

that purple running sweet and wet


there will be a year the timeclock turns

wreaks revenge on hurtful hours & days

the steel spine rears, a clockwork


these are rooms you will leave forever

& nothing will ever be this sad again

and you know it

you know this for yourself

in the non-permitting of an attitude

that you managed to stay alive this Spring

into this particular purpled beginning


suddenly there is that door

& in that swinging, a shaft of light, litlamps

burn inside the darkness where there had been nothing

your soul, that low

until it bellowed


“under jacarandas” — copyright 2011 — all rights reserved

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