what it was

time stretched all around us
unruly
cruel
wise
tender like a deep bruise
sensation disoriented
by the disturbance of nostalgia
gone before the leaves could fall,
our phantoms took on human proportions.

we wanted to raise uncalloused
  smooth
     backhand
to pale unblemished forehead
swoon in sorrow
unleash floral patterned apron
-a 1950s act of contrition-
softly,
to the floor
in dainty display of feminine fall
undone, unmade, unwont

but our guns were cocked
hands worn
eyes too
mind trained
on years of process
(what the fuck was I thinking)
we nurtured you
on fire escape betrayal
benches made of longing
crippling bus ride delivery home
but homeward-bound was not to you
and girls grow woman-fierce
-not your fucking mother-fierce-
our hands hardened from holding on
to nothing so tangible
as a ghost to believe in
and found that faith
demands no grip.

(poem from the archives: Love Letters to the Broken Hearted, 2006)