razor edge blunting now,
shrill signals dying with
resonant crooning melody,
and deep heartbeat caresses.
I play in the dirt, scrabbling loose rocks
to skip against tree trunks,
a singsong voice calls my
name. I run to it, she places
a laden plate within my hands.
The mountains hold secrets I search for,
but not forgetting the ache
of knowing a birthday forgotten,
dragging feet to camp finding
her holding a candled cake.
I talk about the day in school, friends, bullies,
sharp teachers shouting,
my fearing, frustrations, she
listening intently, offering
advice for common sense.
I lay from the beating, my back welted
from the belt and yet she
comes to anoint the sting,
phantom whispers soothing
my anger and my tears.
Her smile is like the ocean, its presence
cresting to peaks and troughs
span the horizon and draw
you forward to wrap you
in loving fulfilling embrace.
Politics, women, religion, books, all vented
in my opinions, desires.
She hears me, nodding
with respect, puts forward
her own when it's her turn.
Now, she is memory, a vision that lives
inside me to happily to
grace me, and often to
grieve me, her loss points
love the way of no acceptance.
� 1999 David P. McClellan
