I.
she was filled up, like a burlap sack waiting
for its puppies
that kind of sorrow
weight of wet cement when shoes fits perfectly,
and still, long enough to make walking away
impossible
bowed back of a packhorse, scaling shale
to take supplies to highest lakes
and cabins, shrugging in snow
windows and doors drifted in
and a cave-like life
where one doesn’t blink
that kind of sorrow
II.
bouquets sitting in a bowl
so long their petals fall off
she was a wooden doll
time has rotted her arms off
a weathering wind peeled paint
of lips ~ blue eyes look barky
and bulgy beneath hair that seems
to have gotten too close to a fire
so that it frizzled in curls
so tight her face puckered
that kind of sorrow
III.
a little snag on crescent of cuticle
just before nail
turning red, then green, then pale
and puffed out until it boils over
in the worst sludge
that kind of sorrow
IV.
pillows with stuffing pounded out of them,
doors slammed so hard
they swing both ways when they were meant
to only swing one
and spaghetti on the ceiling
holding high-flung shards of her best plates
like glue, like putty, like evidence
that kind of sorrow
V.
a metallic hinge, nut and bolt movements;
a screech of an ill-hung door on rusty hinges,
a doorknob coming off in your hand,
an engine that simply will not kick over,
a hammer head without its handle,
a stunned skunk lying in the road,
one dirty sock lying in the ditch
that kind of sorrow
VI.
don’t give her your pitiful look,
she’ll puke her guts out
trying to forget what makes her feel
like a wet cardboard box settling into a garbage dump
because you can not feel that kind of sorrow
no, feel your own, not hers
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Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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Just stopping by again to glean and marvel.
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this is beautiful; that always seems such an inadequate adjective and it doesn't really encapsulate the sheer beauty of your poem. I really loved the use of extended metaphor and imagery throughout that starts with the opening line. Thanks for sharing it, think we've all been there but few of us can describe it so effectively or so vividly. Great writing.
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Pain often is an immediate answer that allows no sharing. At best we can only be silent and a post to lean upon. A friend visits you in the hospitol and you grow tired trying to entertain them. A love visits and sits quietly beside your bed expectiing nothing, knowing you just need to not be alone. Your last line says it all.
Love, Tom B.
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Yes, those who know, know...and it is known so deep and has left its little wisdoms settling in...in case...in case...
thank you for the visit and the kind comment. -
This simply scrolled out of me...I am nto sorrowing...but I do know sorrow....
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Carol, there is simply no one like you, doll. I am all weepy and so tremendously moved--image after sorrowful image striking the mind's eye and the heart's strings. I will try not to pity her and to feel my own sorrow instead, but at the moment I am not sure which is which. I think anyone who has known "that kind of sorrow" can feel her and can feel themselves when they read this, even if the specific troubles are different. This is a gorgeous piece and connection to weary hearts. I love it. You are the best!
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Aw, thank you, dear heart. It needed to be said. And your words, like Richard's, comfort me.
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