Interlude (29)

Parking this poem here as Part 28.1. It is from September 2018. I can remember the angst from that time, though it all got channelled into something very positive a few months later. Maybe we deliberately leave poems as memory markers…for later. For now. Here’s the poem, unedited! The original post is here.

The Way It Works, Or Doesn’t

the way it works, or doesn’t,
one piece of evidence points to another, on and on, even as the search
changes and the seeker
becomes another person, then another;
but not all things are clues, some things just are,
they don’t say anything, won’t go anywhere,
your breath on my skin was not a portent, but I didn’t know that until later,
until it was too late to stop moving,
until it was too late to stop crying;
some things we take along with us, half carrying, half dragging,
their screams incoherent, their eyes streaming, bright like dying stars,
by the time I realised I had found myself,
by the time I figured out why there were no footprints to follow,
by the time I came back to where I began,
where it began,
my head was pounding,
there were welts on my soul, the shape of your fingers,
something you had said was still a bleeding wound;
your walking away was not a sign,
not a symptom of an incoming deluge,
my clothes were wet,
there was water in my shoes,
there were no clues, not even rain,
not even a ripple,
some things just are,
some days, it doesn’t work,
we cannot walk on water.

9 thoughts on “Interlude (29)

  1. What an extraordinary poem. The welts on the soul from trauma are so hard to heal. Sometimes we just have to go on and accept things the way they are. You express this so beautifully.


      1. It sure does. I wasn’t sure how to respond as you sounded so brave. Physical abuse is so hard to talk about. It took me a long time to get over my experience of it.


        1. Am so sorry to hear you had to go through it. And am so glad you have got over it. All forms of abuse, as you rightly said, take ages to heal…mental trauma as well. The struggles are real and we all hope to find paths out of the dark. Poetry helps, a little. Sending big hugs.

          Liked by 1 person

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