The Museum Of Magical Things
Morning in October a sky of shade and trees ablaze.
My heart has been beating overtime lately.
The children cry.
In my mind the chrysalis begins to turn
black and orange, suddenly translucent to the body of the
monarch.
Later and before,
after the wings dried
and the boys let the two butterflies slip
away, away
all the way to Mexico,
I touched a wet finger to the empty
shells left on the mason jar
surprised by the strength of their stems
stuck fast to the glass.
The ache of my head
this morning. The beat of my heart
fast, heavy, heaving.
Fear in the red orange fire of the tree.
Fear in something I cannot yet see.
Breathe. Drink water. Breathe.
The children are crying fat tears at the breakfast
table. Slapping each other, stealing toys.
Later they will sit in the bath after night fall
with their father at the kitchen sink
steps away, washing the dishes. They will sit
in hot water and laugh and splash and be happy.
I will teach my class
exhaustedly, worried that I am failing,
think of the way my face is breaking
feel the thick web of time.
Think of the thin lines also on the faces
of my beloveds... sisters, friends, husband.
How we had never believed they'd be.
I think of the way they mark a history of expression.
The way they mark inwardly, a life lived.
The way they point often towards the sky.
I am trying to love
what I already have, what is already here
what has come of this life,
rather than the other stuff
of the yet evolved regions
of the brain. The want.
Trying to love the book manuscript
as it is, unruly and imperfect.
All the hours endless hours spent,
but ask me a question. What is the story?
Later, I will lay in my bed beside my husband
feet to head, head to feet. Speaking.
Listening. I complain. I feel the same.
Nothing changes. But everything does.
In the museum of magical things or perhaps
it is magical thinking in there & here,
all the sun filled days, all the snowforts of the world
all the stories we have told each other
in our weary attempts to stave off time.
In our love.
Our broken, imperfect love.
My heart has been beating overtime lately.
The children cry.
In my mind the chrysalis begins to turn
black and orange, suddenly translucent to the body of the
monarch.
Later and before,
after the wings dried
and the boys let the two butterflies slip
away, away
all the way to Mexico,
I touched a wet finger to the empty
shells left on the mason jar
surprised by the strength of their stems
stuck fast to the glass.
The ache of my head
this morning. The beat of my heart
fast, heavy, heaving.
Fear in the red orange fire of the tree.
Fear in something I cannot yet see.
Breathe. Drink water. Breathe.
The children are crying fat tears at the breakfast
table. Slapping each other, stealing toys.
Later they will sit in the bath after night fall
with their father at the kitchen sink
steps away, washing the dishes. They will sit
in hot water and laugh and splash and be happy.
I will teach my class
exhaustedly, worried that I am failing,
think of the way my face is breaking
feel the thick web of time.
Think of the thin lines also on the faces
of my beloveds... sisters, friends, husband.
How we had never believed they'd be.
I think of the way they mark a history of expression.
The way they mark inwardly, a life lived.
The way they point often towards the sky.
I am trying to love
what I already have, what is already here
what has come of this life,
rather than the other stuff
of the yet evolved regions
of the brain. The want.
Trying to love the book manuscript
as it is, unruly and imperfect.
All the hours endless hours spent,
but ask me a question. What is the story?
Later, I will lay in my bed beside my husband
feet to head, head to feet. Speaking.
Listening. I complain. I feel the same.
Nothing changes. But everything does.
In the museum of magical things or perhaps
it is magical thinking in there & here,
all the sun filled days, all the snowforts of the world
all the stories we have told each other
in our weary attempts to stave off time.
In our love.
Our broken, imperfect love.
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