BrokenEchoes

A chill frost crusts the morning grass And forms an impenetrable shell on my windshield I dread the cold and the wet and  the burning pain in my hands I could scrape the glass clean and have it done Or let the defroster work and have another cup of coffee I drink a second cup of the bitter brew  in the shadow of the foothills I drag the week’s trash down the treacherous drive To the curb, for pickup As the sun crests the mountain, It sets fire to the frozen particles  Clinging to the trash can A million dazzling glints on the black And I welcome the sparkling flame of morning.

  Two languages simultaneously One of love     The other of suspicion Telling of beauty and joy     And of secrets and lies Searching at ones sweet gaze Presenting the footprints of the dark garbed burglar Finding one nearby Being followed directly to all my hidden secrets.

  When we were young Before we understood the world We sought out small dark spaces We slid under the bed We climbed into the dryer We closed ourselves up in the pumphouse We disappeared into the crawlspace We found solace in the kitchen cabinets We searched out these cramped places That could be shut off from view We were hiding from the monster in our home We were always found Now we are older I still shrink from the light I still pursue cramped dim hideaways I may always I hope you have fared better.

Neither of us is attentive I stopped listening when I was younger When he was younger too Back then he spoke in anger And listened to the bottle I shrank from his words Learned to distrust them I could say nothing that interested him He is older now, but communication hasn’t improved He listens to the book now Taking notice of little else He talks in feigned meekness Forgetting willfully the past barbarity My trust hasn’t recovered as fully as my bones His softer up-to-date language Does not penetrate my skin We talk,  but only superficially We speak, but it is formulaic And mundane We exchange words, But neither of us really says anything In a way The empty bland chatter hurts worse  Than the belts and backhands In another way It hurts far worse.

Myriad thoughts skitter across the surface of my brain Like a growing swarm of carrion beetles Each moves according to its own internal instinct Gnawing here, writhing there Crawling over one another Trying to find a way in The buzzing and churning are driving me mad Weakening my defenses In time I will succumb I will be infested with the vile scourge The fight will be over And I will have lost.

      When we happen to be in the same room By luck or fate or happenstance I urge each second to stretch To expand into minutes, days, lifetimes I want to live in the fleeting insignificant moments Drinking each small adjustment Studying each minute gesture Submerging myself in all of her words This is not to be The seconds slip by, rushed Minutes escape, moment by moment I stumble and stammer I feel clumsy and out of place and out of time My thoughts fall like pine cones on the forest floor The seconds burn away like dry brush in a fire And she is gone again I am left with sooty memories of scattered glimpses.