He
has screamed
at
my touch for days now,
tis
as if this Rose, his Rose
has
become his crown of thorns
my
love his exquisite agony.
I
remember once
he
threw me o’er his back
(I
greenstick then)
and
missed his aim,
and
I ungrasped
in
his huge navvy hands
tumbled
headlong to the earth.
(He
cried then, the same tears
I
am crying now.)
He
is calcified,
as
old on the hills
on
once which he trod.
He
is broken, does not,
cannot
bend with whispering
or
even the wildest wind.
(His
cheeks puff out with every breath;
breath
fights egress
through
his flaccid whitened lips.
(Sometimes
he just stops
and
I just wish he would not start again.))
Lips
lips lips.
With
painted eyes and lips
redder
than the reddest Rose,
I
made my debut into womanhood,
and
he, he exploded mechanical
and
called me whore,
but
he was evil then,
boozed
up with beer,
his
cheeks redder than my painted lips.
(I
cried then the tears I am crying now.)
His
back is not broken but his legs will not work.
(God’s
retribution, mother says.
(Her
eyes oft painted black by drunken fists.))
He
is timorous now like the smallest mouse,
laying
there waiting for his god to whisk him up
to
a heaven he hopes (to God) exists.
Despite
his flaying fists, I hope it does,
for
him I hope it does.
He
was the morning of my life,
the
afternoon, and now I, his night.
I
love him, have always loved him,
yet
I touch him, afraid and happy
as
he winces…screams in pain…
And
I cry now –
but
do I cry for him or cry for me?
Roses
die don’t they?
I
am the Rose between his teeth.
Anna
:o]
Heavens,
how in the past few weeks I have attempted to respond to prompts – but there
has been nothing there, my mind completely empty.
This
afternoon I read Björn’s post, to learn he to be the host on tonight’s dVerse –
and the theme that of defamiliarisation.
So I researched it and came up with the above offering. I am not certain it fits the bill – but will
offer it anyway.
Thanks
Björn’ for igniting the grey matter.
I
must state that the inspiration came from the thoughts of a friend – whose
father is in the process of dying. My
friend is of the catholic faith – as is my handsome one. My friend is finding it very hard to come to
terms that ‘his God’ is allowing his father to die in agony.
I
must also add that my friend’s father is not an alcoholic and that the offered
words are a compilation of stories told to me, told to me by folks dealing with
death or imminent death of those they love.
And there is a bit in there about the death of my father too.
Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
