ComingToTerms

Coming to Terms

I.

I didn't see it coming, late April storm--
February forgotten, far behind--
caught up in spring's complacent beauty,
that gnarled crab apple's two weeks' bloom,
reminding me of my beautiful soul.
Woken late--throb of rain
in the gray-green morning, earth sodden,
wind rising all day, thrashing
sheets of rain against our windows,
snakes of water writhing through the roads, rising.
The crab apple stripped of petals,
tattered, half-naked refugee of the storm.
I couldn't account for the forces raging
through my green world--I took shelter,
covered my head, went to sleep,
rocked by the sobbing sky, the beating on my door.
Woken by silence, this time--rain's rhythm exhausted,
storm worn out, though lingering
in the air in the smell of torn earth,
the puddles drying in my driveway,
grass white with petals, soaked and wrung out.
The tree's brief bloom ended early:
it was never strong enough for a hard season,
I say, explaining away my ache of confusion, loss.

II.

I carry her afterwards like a hangover,
throbbing inside me, slowly fading,
until I see through only my own eyes again.

When she held me inside her, I fought
to understand her from the inside out,
I fought like we were drowning:
Frantic to find the sky, the ground,
to breathe before the next wave knocked us down,
I fought like I could find the source
of that ocean, the force washing us over.

I carry her afterwards like a bad dream,
sobbing inside me, that I can't quite remember,
until I forget how those images tore me open.

When she holds me inside her, I want to know her,
where she comes from, who she is, what she wants with me--
why her face looks so much like mine.
I want to know her, name her,
but I am afraid that calling
will make her mine, like an invitation,
like a mirror, a sign: I know you.
I am afraid that someone will confuse the two of us,
that I will answer to her name.

I carry her afterwards like a scarlet letter,
wearing her, a scar that does not fade
but becomes a part of me, visible sign: fallen.

III.

Sitting in the Laundromat around the corner,
eating lunch and watching my jeans spin in the machine.
Feeling that fragile calm that follows a bad day,
like returning to a place after an absence,
knowing life went on and wondering
who noticed I was gone and what they thought,
not quite in step with the rhythm of the place, yet.
The room is shaking again, the machines sending tremors
through the floor, the air, the bench where I sit.
Is this how clothes feel after a spin cycle?
Wrung out, exhausted, still damp--
not knowing when they may be flung to the wall,
spun violently, dropped.
We reel together, as the room stills.