Chiasma


I would write,
if I could write,
of her face that
morning:

Pale with flush,
creaseless and smooth
but for the line, a
deep

vertical line of pain; the
overscore from bridge to
scalp and back again; an
impassable,

implacable wall between
us.  I would have traced
that line so gently with my
quivering

finger, but I could not
breathe, could not
manage to imagine
life

without her.  Instead, I
crumbled to a whimper,
melted to a mewl; just
one

more child crying, No
Mommy, no Mommy,
don’t go, not now, not
yet,

please don’t go yet.
All the things I meant
never to say, all the
words

I meant never to
cry, spewed from
me unbidden, the
panicked

pleas of a six year old
child.  When at last,
she opened her eyes,
still

she was not here,
she was not there,
and I thought, Oh
darling

help me, help me;
call her back, get
her back for me,
please!

But, you, too, were
gone, as always,
gone; eyes open
only

to that world in
which I am not, am
never, allowed to
exist.

And
as I called to her,
as I cried for you,
I knew that one of

you was as likely
as the other ever
to return to
me.

© sdrogers 21 january 2013