When I Grow Weary Even of My Last Name 2
On the day I grow weary
even of the light
that enters through the window each morning,
I will quietly close the door of the house
so I do not wake
the memories.
I have watched them long enough
walking barefoot
from room to room,
searching
for those
who never returned.
I will feel no regret.
I have carried enough crosses
without ever calling them
by that name.
I have learned
that even bread can weep
when it is broken
inside a house
where illness
has become
the most faithful guest.
My mom will be sleeping.
Her breathing
will take the place
of every prayer
I never knew
how to speak.
And I
will remain
at the edge of her bed
like a tree
that has lost
all its birds.
Lord,
if You have need of me,
do not call my name aloud.
I am coming,
slowly.
I still have to gather
a few photographs,
two notebooks,
the scent of basil,
and my mother's voice,
still calling me
her child,
though my beard
has turned white-ish
before its time.
I owned
no fortune.
I owned
only words.
Some died
before I could write them.
Others
remained suspended
against the roof of my mouth,
like bells
no one
wished to hear again.
If You find me
at the edge of an evening,
do not ask
what I am seeking.
I am seeking the place
where silence
no longer hurts.
I am seeking the moment
when God
will place His hand
upon my shoulder
and simply say:
You have come.
Then
I will leave my poetry
on the threshold of the world
like an old pair of shoes.
Perhaps someone else
will need them
to walk
farther
than I ever did.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
