The unexpected has happened.
Children gone, husband away,
and I alone in hot wash
of rocking water, pores open
to whatever may come.
A whirr, long whine from aging pipes—
cricket? imprisoned insect?
echo of neighbor's saw
through ground not yet frozen?
I think it is my spirit,
coming home,
pushed away as I push
all who would draw near,
that part of me so long lost
that I fear never to find again,
so long lost that I scarce
remember its being.
I have looked
in quake of overwhelming loss,
in vile wind that assails me daily,
in fire of anger, in acrid smoulder,
in bitter lees of dying flame.
I have looked for you,
spirit of myself.
I hear you now
coming home
in the quiet settling of this house,
in the lap of this hot water,
in this being still.
Photography credit: "Feet of Woman Taking a Bath," by Corbis Super RF (originally horizontal, color).
i looove this poem
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