February 26, 2010
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BROKEN PIECES
BROKEN PIECES
Rebellion
Poor choices
Immature logic
Stubborn denialAll those years of training up her child…
Were they totally wasted?
Where did she go wrong?Self-incrimination,
trying to shoulder a blame
that really is not hers:
A mother’s heart breaks
into a million tiny fragments,
each one a cutting-sharp edge
of anguish that cannot be assuaged.Invisible slivers that cannot be found
to be removed.“I HURT!” she first feels
and those feelings push outward, distraught.
“YOU HURT ME!”
her thoughts direct at her grown child
and instinctively, she tries to shut off
the source of the pain.But even that hurts
and feels utterly wrong
because the source is her child
whom she deeply loves.She cannot shut off her child.
But surely she cannot remain
flayed open so vulnerably?Guilt …
Again.What does it matter?
she tells herself,
feeling utterly at a loss.To love
is to remain vulnerable
To cut off the source
stops the debilitating painThe choice
is as difficult as the situation itself.
The solution
is as painful as the problem.
It all feels wrongThere is no out!
The shards of brokenness
seem to fly around
in a hurricane of turmoil
constantly stabbing,
slicing everywhere
even -especially- where tenderness is exposed.The whirlwind slows
and the pieces fall to the groundLOVE!
I WILL LOVE!Tearfully, she kneels
and gathers the shards of her heart into a pile,
slivers piercing her handsLOVE!
I WILL LOVE!She insists despite the dust
that gathers with the fragments
and mixes with the glass
and the blood.LOVE!
I WILL LOVE!
Oh God!!
I WILL LOVE! I WILL LOVE!Her tears fall in painful desperation
as she tries to piece her heart back together.Please..
I cannot not love!I WILL LOVE! I WILL LOVE! I WILL LOVE!
The blood, the tears, the glass, the dust…
Her hands cover her face
and she folds in half,
crying.please God…
I will love.
It doesn’t matter how much it hurts.
I will love.
No matter what she chooses.
I will love.
Regardless of the cost
I will love.I will not interfere
I will not intervene
The choices are hers
The consequences are hers as well.
I will love.I will love.
Oh God…
Make it stop!
I hurt.I will love.
©drc 2010
Comments (3)
Wow. I just logged into my Xanga after months away to begin the painful process of writing a dissertation on the process of blogging to find voice in a time of crisis. When I did, your post came up, and I clicked on it. Now I am crying and typing and reliving all of the pain and hurt and love and desperation and love and love and love that I desperately held onto through my son’s years of incarceration. Your poem is powerful. So powerful. And your pain is palpable. I am here. And I know this hurt…….. Tammy
@tbird36 - Thank you, Tammy. I can tell you know this hurt. My heart goes out to you. This poem goes with the previous two I posted here … It’s been rough going… and sadly -painfully- doesn’t look to be letting up any time soon.
We often find pain is the catalyst to lubricate the process, a written exorcism of something we must get out of our souls…a cutting open of a vein to bleed our truths onto the page. You bled well. Hopefully, you’ve healed well.