Sunday, September 3, 2017

biddy crossing monday morning

I have a dream where I am in a long blue dress
and, in one broad act of petulant, childish destruction,
you swipe all the wine glasses off the table,
their stems breaking in half on the floor,
and the shards of their bowls sticking in my
dark dress and tablecloth, down which
a trail of cabernet spills,
like a trail of blood
from the white arm of a donor
at the Red Cross Blood Drive.

I stare at you, paralyzed by anger
you stare at me, trembling with self-hatred, a cold self-loathing.
Between us
pain creeps up thick and thorny
I can't see yours on the other side of mine,
and since you can barely understand
the world outside the snail-shell of your
own feelings,
the knowledge that you have wounded
me with more than wine glass shards
would pierce through you
if only you would let it.
If you did, it would break you.
So you let it rest out there,
in the dangerous inchoate world outside your own ego
and curl up inside your shell,
sticking your head in the sand
to keep the clarity
of an unhandsome reality at a fuzzy distance,

and wish that you could knock the wine glasses off the table.

I, stifled by pain you pretend doesn't exist, wish you would as well.

We're both trapped,
separated by a sea of broken glass.
I have the upper hand,
I know I do,
as I stand proud, beautifully made-up
—unmoving—
in this shattered sea of glass,
until you trap me into this again.
This hatred, this paralyzing anger.
Which is sooooo yesterday (Hilary Duff, 2003)
This dream of staring at you,
eyes boring holes into you,
sharp as broken wine glass stems
has become pretty dated.
But still I dream it,
Damn it.

So into this,
disaster,
I pray the cross.

I imagine, blooming from the soil of glass shards
a crucifix, like the egregious one that's sprouting on the
corner of South Bend Avenue/Highway 23.
It blooms there among the corner flowers.

I tell him:
I'm so tired, Jesus.
I'm so angry—
angry at//
pray for us
angry at//
pray for us
angry at—
an exhausting litany of anger
I've been stretched into a thin,
taught laundry line
from which I hang sordid grudges.
He hangs there
tired of it, too.

But still he hangs, bringing some sort of meaning
some logos
a thread of plot (and there's hope in that)
to all this wild, senseless anger.
He will always bloom there,
breaking through my dreams of
angry, shattered wine glasses.

And I
am offered freedom
from all this broken glass
if I will fix my stare upon the cross
and not the shattered remnants of a world fashioned together
and fractured by sheer anger.

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