SEPERATED

My young child is dead

The anguish I feel is unbearable.

Don’t tell me you know my heart because you don’t

The void inside is so deep—darkness is the only light

Lines assault my eyes and burrow ’round the mouth; thoughts are besieged

So unyielding the feeling

When refreshed with cold water, using a towel to wipe becomes a bother

O how I yearn for the strength to leave, without ever having to step outside.

It is people right now I have no stomach for

Their tearless stares steal what little peace I have to cling

I wish; I wish—o how I wish I could leave

Take me; take me to someplace far away, I don’t care where

Why is it that if I want to leave so badly, my mind must struggle so?

Shortness of breath I—I can’t bear it much longer

The stench of sameness hovers in this room, like an obese cloud

Locked up—confined with no ventilation, no window

Dreary grey walls, four cement block walls, filthy smoke-stained walls.

Why did this happen?

Where is my child?

Bring me my child; don’t you realize she needs her father?

I need to be with her, to hold her; we need to be together…

I want to look for her; I need to look for her

I need her to know I am here

I want to call her name again

She just might hear me this time

I wish; I wish she could hear me this time

Christ, what if she is unable to speak?

What if I can’t hear her little cry?

I haven’t given up, and in ways, I guess I have

I should—no; I need to look for her

I try, but each step stops short of reaching the correct door.

Why must people insist I hear their sorrow?

Why do they send apologetic cards that recite contrite condolences?

Don’t they realize it only reminds me of my loss?

The ignorant morons.

I give up

I’ve got nothing left; I’m spent

Take me now; I’m ready to go where I can be at peace

Where falling asleep for a very long time is possible

I’m exhausted; I’m deathly tired

What in Christ’s name am I wearing?

Barefoot with a flannel jacket zipped up unnaturally under the chin

Unshaven and barely washed

My fingernails are clouded with dirt and oil

They never used to be kept this poorly

I don’t like how I look; in fact, I’m disgusting.

Over there is my backyard

Over there, you can see it…look again

There it is, that’s right…yes, you see it too

It is so beautiful.

I would recline across a chaise lounge in my backyard, under the warm sun

Familiar, having spent earlier in the day pruning bushes and raking leaves

Quiet, except for the distant play of neighborhood children.

My body might turn, as my eyes drift in the direction of their noise

The tall redwood fence I see, encloses my spacious yard

I hadn’t noticed before, how shabby it’s become

How the once virile timber posts lean lazily in an unneighborly direction.

The fence has the appearance it’s lost all courage, to stand decent

And the dog-eared pickets—far too many appear weathered with broken ends

A passerby might notice the fence boards no longer hold hands as before.

Should temptation take my fingers, and slide them along the wooden grain

Not so gently against the face of one of these boards, as if inclined to caress

My fingers if pulled abruptly away, would take a splinter back with them

See, my fingers are no different from yours.

My young child is dead, and her loss lives to remind me

She is not coming back

Neither remorse, zealous prayer, nor passage of time will change that fact

Tricks to entice you really, nothing more; I know because I have tried each

And each has agreed to fail me.

I’m damned it seems

To a place no scientific person believes exists

A place beyond comprehension

A place, I am convinced is real.

I feel its angry flames scald the underside of my naked feet

Others, whom I haven’t met, I sense are nearby

Their wails frighten me, and I am helpless to stop their advance.

They are calling now, some more persistently, and most all from the dark

I am certain this place is misery

And here, is my punishment for an eternity.

©2013 Bill Canepa