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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