"Mute Blueness"

and you stop yourself 

standing in a frozen pirouette

with one foot 

lightly toeing the carpet

behind you

as the wind

hits the panes of glass

and 

a tree branch

follows soon after 

entering your room

with a crash

and the cat jets

in a blur of calico

under your bed

and you think 

after spinning around

and gaping for a moment

at the sight

with your hands

clasped over your heart

how you used to hide

in the same place

where you were told

monsters are

and your father

suddenly appears in your mind

like a tall

sludge of mud

with two dark stones

pressed into his clay face

for eyes

and it is all so real again

as the rain floods your window sill

drenching the carpet

and the musty smell

will soon rise

and the cat is still hidden

and the glass glimmers in

the bright gray sun

wetly

and the blue and yellow bruise

no longer under your eye

feels like your soul

did then

like a million small mice

squeaking in your heart

trapped paws

scurrying

away
but there is no away

and the winter feels nice

to you now

in big coats

without swimsuits

or beaches

and it feels good

the empty spaces

where you can sit

and no one on the bench

and no one beside

you on the train

and a twin bed

and if you cry
it might all
come out

and so you don't

ever 

cry 

even when things 

that you love fly

you just grow
another layer of bark

and you think

somewhere
under the rings

of armor

might be soft flesh

gold

freedom

peace

and you hope the mice have gone

but you can't tell anymore

it is so far away

and the rain is still falling

into your room

where no lover has been

just the cat

the harmless small cat

who can love

at a distance

confusing you

with god

for fish or chicken

and you wish

the rain drops 

pelting your floor

were really your tears

and somewhere

a cleansing would occur

and things would leave 

and things would fill that space

things you can count on

like luck

after wishing

or birthday candles

lit

by loving flames

and you pick up the sharp glass

and it is August

and the cat is still hidden

and you clench a piece

too tightly

and the thrill

of what you see comforts you

bleaches the pain 

and you stand there

and smile

thinking it is his

red rain

and not your own

and you wish hard

but no

fairies are not angels

don't have kindness

cannot smile
they are

come-at-night 

hermaphrodites

and you no more smile

watching the red

and back away

from the branch

obscenely

f*****g

your room

cumming wet leaves

and you mumble about
cleaning it up

knowing

there is no Clorox

no Lysol or soap

that they sell out there

in the happy shops

full of promises

to scrub your brain with

and one more Vicodin

chased with wine

offers

a tiny solution

to a mountainous

problem

and your shaking hands

are in your pockets

one in gauze

you keep around

just in case

and water washes

down

and down

the duct-taped

white garbage bag

beating the earth

beyond it

in small 

senseless 

patters

Author's Note

Reviews

[earthperceptions]

Each stanza of this poem forms such a breath taking image. Especially the one about the father, it just pushed forward in my mind. You have excellent word choice that creates rhythm and the connection between different images throughout the poem gives it a great flow and ties each stanza to one another. "standing in a frozen pirouette" what a beautiful image and also a strong metaphor for the entire poem. Usually with trauma the memory(ies) is cyclical and persistent, here, in your writing you have captured it as a moment in time.
Thank you for sharing

[That_Girl]

Steven... I know I said it "almost" pisses me off, but after hearing the recording and reading it three times (it takes me a few reads, don't laugh! ;) ), I have come to the conclusion that your extraordinary talent actually does really piss me the f**k off.

This is the s**t you can't learn in school... raw talent. Wonderful job. :)

[Mia]

Must you always shame us mediocre poets...show off :)