Photograph

Tattered from age,

edges browned

Chocolate or blood?

A single oily imprint of my finger remains,

35 years have gone by;

And I hold it in my hand

once white edges, shiny smooth, square

A day in this life, a regular day now-special

I hold my dog, Hildegaard in one arm

I read from my second grade work book in the other

My long pale blue jeans a yellow shirt, long, long hair

the pictures tells…..it is set in the seventies,

As is as apparent by the chair I sit on……

Without this single photograph,

This day may have been forgotten

Like the others.

Pain’s hidden beauty

My wrists swell, like the lids of my eyes

After a hard, repressed cry surfaces;

Tears find their way out,  

as naturally as a snakes skin, they must be shed,

for fear the heart will become saturated,

or the salty droplets will extinguish

the embers that warm the insides,

Why though- does my flesh expand,

Heavy, puffed as if I’m padded to be tackled,

to prepare my innards from outward attack?

When the insides put up a fight of its own

It’s like the shadow of my 20’s self,

It’s emphatic, on guard, fluffed and cooing;

pomped feathers to protect my bones

 For fear life will chip away at them.

I never thought I’d see the day

I felt more brittle

like a shelf of once adored miniature figurines

Layers of dust, blanketing their charm,

Perhaps I should write a letter to my first love

And thank him again?