Restoration

The white cotton is soaking wet 

a bone dry canvas that has been riddled with

mucus, salt, grief, despair, dripping wet 

dripping in aguish 

my clenched fists wrap around you 

they find themselves neatly on your spine

the wrists press in 

hold on for dear life 

the way a mother clasps the palms of her child 

as they cross a traffic filled street 

I swish a thought around 

to keep from falling too far down:

We were done even when I was 

screaming 'my love' 

even when I was fighting 

relentlessly 

hands wide open 

to my love 

At night, it's hard to know 

Can you blame me? 

the Sunday evening dusk 

is terrifying 

the week, the life before all of us

is terrifying 

Curiously the knowing 

is clearer than crystal 

yet how we so easily forget  

the doing 

this cognitive dissonance 

out of choice

or positions of reverence 

Hope was always my anthem 

I belt it out over us 

covered everything with shaky vocals

it cracked into the white cotton  

left whimpers in blank spaces

Eventually I abandoned the song 

Reviews

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

Incredible poem written with such personal emotion and perspective. This is the beauty of writing it is revealing and also mysterious at the same time. Complex much like we are as human beings. Thank you for sharing your art.