so i read scott facing thirty seven, and it brought memories of me, just after forty, with a similar sense of loss. except mine thought it was a poem.
retrospective
she listens with her
skin to the rain on
the boulevard
as cars pass:
a caress, a
promise, & a loss
(always)
this is her
mantra, it stirs her,
fills her & ultimately
abandons her
(again)
as she assembles her
retrospective, four decades of
missed chances & second &
subsequent thoughts, doubts, mistakes, etc.;
an extensive collection of
losses she presents as an
expression of her
self
yes, loss, she chants
& passes into her
past, wants to stay & change
everything, even knowing what
she does of events & chains &
time, that is, that
any revision in her
history means the
sacrifice of her whole known
life now
& she is still
willing, saying, yes, i will miss
this & that but
it must be so
& luckily, it
cannot possibly
& so she goes
on, same scars, same
sons & daughter, same dreams
& secrets; selfsame,
she is still the sum of
her consequences &
then some & still sane
(almost)
just alone now
but for the first time it is less
a loss than a
choice.
.
.
a.
choice.
(a first)
& this changes
things, yes.
choice.
-(me)
23 FEB 2000
I think I've reached an accomodation of some sort. ...at least the intensity has diminished. Then again, I'm male: denial is a way of life <g>.
'she is still the sum of her consequences'
wow. this really is a powerful statement. such truth and honesty in it. makes me want to cry. *sniff*
wonderful poem.