Category: Art

a dream narrative poem

you still linger…
hard to forget you,
but I want to.

hard to move on,
but I had to.

you are the dry rot
of towels, a smell that
remains regardless of the
number of times
we wash and bleach them.

constant without contact,
abuse without words,
the fact of life that
dies to teach one more
lesson while the heart
is already breaking.

I had a dream that your
oldest daughter found me,
and hugged my neck
so tight I lost my voice.

I didn’t know what to say
or how to react…
why was she here?
I stood befuddled, amazed
by how much she favored you,
yet you always had your
mark on your firstborn.

she walked, talked, and
flashed her hands around the
air like you, too.
it was good but it
wasn’t.

because the questions came…
questions to which I
had no answers, and could
only say, “It was time for
me to leave. I knew of
no other way to keep
myself from breaking.”

to a 20-year-old, this
seems like abandonment
and neglect, but it wasn’t,
it isn’t.
she hasn’t yet experienced pain
so deep it keeps you
from functioning in life—refusing
to bathe or eat or love
yourself.

she doesn’t know the sting
of realizing you will
never be the chosen one.

I left when this child was
15, and she wanted answers.
“Ask your mother” seemed
viciously vile.
I always wondered what you
told, are telling the children,
what they think of me.

I don’t anymore.
there’s no need.
your oldest came to
me in a dream, and she told
me, “You are forgiven.
I don’t blame you.
I still love you.”

yet you linger… long…
you are the dry rot
of towels, a smell that
remains regardless of the
number of times
we wash and bleach them.

regardless of the number
of times we wash and
bleach them, you linger.

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*Also published in Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun via Substack.