Cleansing Cathartic History.
She shivers with thoughts
and asks for fleece
to cover her ears, her neck
her eyes.
Sinking into the comfort of skin
she wilts.
She weeps.
It's these thoughts when
the rest of the world is smiling
that are the coldest.
They knock in synapse rhythm:
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Faster and faster 'till the freezing begins.
Occasionally, the tears start at old movies,
or commercials (if they're really good),
but mostly they just wait for the persistent memories.
The war.
Hospital stays where no one came to pick her up.
A mother who spoke of love only with disgust on her lips.
The piano keys turning electric under her fingers
to match her wailing, note by note.
Lost love.
Lost people.
Lost family.
Lost.
It's in a warp of time she weeps for better days.
Minutes dream of her 'till she grows still,
the shaking quieted.
After these thoughts, after warmth, after tears,
after stuffing the synapse strings back behind doors,
closing them tightly, but without anger
after becoming still,
the blood returns to finger tips and smiles
and she uses her quick fix to repair her world.
The waves on every beach which know her footprint.
The birth of her only child.
The purr of her favorite cat as he shares her sunflower seeds
and drinks her beer out of the bottle cap.
Music, ah music, which unravels out of her depths in composition gifts.
Pure love.
Pure people.
Pure family.
Pure.
Emerging tired, but triumphant, over herself,
she folds up the fleece and rejoins the here and now
and picks up the phone to call her daughter,
with only moments having past,
once again cleansing cathartic history.
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