Housework:
incessant chore
detracting from fun
and always
always
always
still to do.
But at least
I have
a house.
.
.
I hate housework. From my messy room as a kid to my messy desks (at home and at work) I epitomize chaos theory. I want to use my time to create, so there is something to show for it. Since housework never ends, one is never satisfied with the task, which inevitably dissolves.
You were
exorcized
letter by letter,
word by word,
phrase by phrase,
sentence by sentence,
paragraph by paragraph,
page by page,
chapter by chapter.
Now you are
merely a spectre
who peeks around corners
whispers at my ear
hums for my remembrance.
My only benediction
on the lost boy
from long ago
is the bittersweet smile
and the faraway glimmer
in my eyes.
You’ve ignited,
conflagration in the halls,
a flaming torch.
Burning brightly,
napalm from your flame thrower
devouring the walls.
You’re an incendiary bomb
blazing through the air,
leaving no survivors
at all.
Two identical
blazing logs
are ramming together
shooting sparks
with every shot,
neither aware
that they will set the
whole forest on fire
if they do not
stop ramming
and begin rolling
toward the cool waters
of understanding.
My words
want a place
up high, where they
can fly in on pieces of sky,
and settle into story.
My words
want a place
where the stripe of the highway
guides them here and away.
My words
want to sit in
molten sunbeams
simmering as ideas, waiting
to bubble into book life.
My words,
wish the window wasn’t
so far away, and the world
outside did not beckon
with so many responsibilities.
My words
want a place
where time stops,
where only they and I exist
and together, we mold worlds.
There
in the span
across the back
your agony rests.
There
in the flesh
of your arms
your pain sits.
There
in the curve
of your neck
your anger abides.
There
in the well
of your heart
your recovery dreams.
I feel the vibration
reverberating down my back
drilling between shoulder blades
pushing at my temples.
Simple questions
snarky answers.
Simple expectations
superior refusals.
Patience is very thin
The end of the rope has frayed
Consequences?
Here’s a tent.
and a sleeping bag,
if you’d prefer?
The massage will work
out the kinks,
settle the tension,
return balance,
but when I’m back,
you’ll still be here,
sending out those vibrations
that are breaking down
my nervous system.
As they approach
your relaxed droop stiffens
your body tightens
each cell constricting.
You’re too old for
oppositional defiance
yet you shiver with it.
“Myself!” I hear your
two year old self echoing
through the decades. “No!”
But look,
this is a time of change,
and nothing changes without effort.
You have experts at your fingertips
and you refuse support and aid
because
Why, exactly?
You were so ready to fly,
and you’ve gone so far,
but now you’re quivering beneath the nest
while the parents flap about squawking
about winter migration,
and that cat on the porch.
You heedlessly tuck you head
beneath your wing
to nap.
I’m diving,
slicing water,
breathless,
drowning.
I’m racing,
building speed,
breathless,
crashing.
I’m going,
aiming high
breathless,
exploding.
.
.
This sounds like something terrible is unfolding, but all is well, just having a busy, breathless kind of day! 🙂
Shawn L. Bird 