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.
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