This one flower

Stunned, hurt, and on the verge of tears, Josie stared at the spot where the King had just been standing.  She had known it was impossible—that she could never stay in the Interior, and that he would never cross over.  Neither of them would have dared ask the other to make such a huge sacrifice.  But at the same time she’d told herself that, although they couldn't truly be together, she would at least be able to see him sometimes.  That he would just completely disappear from her life—she hadn't considered that possibility for a moment.  Not after everything they’d been through together.  His impersonal thanks on behalf of his people…she never would have believed it would end like that. 

And yet it had.

Regrets

When all aboard ride the night train alone

mark the passing of the time with the

falling of the

snow

No use in unpacking for tomorrow    

tomorrow is a thousand midnight

dreams of summer

away.

Remains of this day

Sometimes I'm okay.  It’s just that I keep coming back to the not being okay.  I don’t want to keep coming back.  I want to forget the way, so that I can never come back here again.  I want to walk out of these hallways, out into the light, and never look back.  I want the boy with the red straws to wave goodbye to me from the stoop, a little smile on his face, because he knows I will never be back.  I want to leave all of the dogs and cats with him, because I know he’ll take care of them.  I want to see Mike jumping up and down, hear him shouting, “Good luck,” while Mary laughs at him.  I want Helga and even Ron and all of the others to be gathered behind the pirate kids, everyone waving goodbye and none of us feeling sad because this was how we all, secretly in our heart of hearts, hoped it would end.  I want to leave them to turn the giant, dark school building with the hallways that go everywhere and nowhere into a university with courtyards and windows and signs with directions.  I want them to leave me to walk off into the forest illuminated by mid-day sun. 

The morning has gone.  All I want now is the afternoon.  Please.

The first conversation with George

George wants to know what we’re going to talk about.

Well, I don’t know, I tell him. 

I guess about what’s on the other side of the wall.

Okay, he says, what’s on the other side of the wall?

Grass, I answer.  And trees.  England.  Dogs.  Cats

Birds and cows and children and French fries.

Music, some of it beautiful.  Pictures and art.

Questions about steam and smoke and words that

cannot be pronounced.

All of these things and more.

Hmmmn, he replies, I know about most of

those things. 

I’m not sure what’s in it for me.

You can’t want to be inside of those walls,

I protest.

It must be boring, and so lonely.

Boring, no, he says, because I still have

my mind.

Lonely, sometimes.  But I wasn’t made to

feel much.

I could ask what you were made to do,

I reply.

But I don’t think I want to know.

A work in progress, 1995

For me, overcoming my habit of disassociation was a lot like kicking drugs.  I needed the ability to disassociate to make my life bearable, but, ultimately, the defense became the obstacle and I realized I had to start living outside of my head if I wanted my life to be "normal."  I knew this to be true; but I didn't appreciate it.  In fact, I hated it.  The process made me question everything:  who I was, my belief in God, etc.  I think I needed to come to grips with what my life was and had been before I could even consider claiming it.  I had to convince myself that everything would be okay, even if it wasn't how I wanted it to be.  

Poetry journal, 1993

Where are you tonight?
I see you sitting on the low-backed blue
sofa only a cat could
love
complaining about me and discussing
Jung and astrology in the same
breath
I see you you are so unknowable
I hate one person more and that is
myself.

Hidden hope

She has a memory.  One beautiful memory.  Carefully held in the palm of her hands, so that no one else might find it and steal it.  She must leave it nowhere.  It must always remain with her.  The memory of that one summer morning, while they still slept.  The pavement of the driveway cool on her bare feet as she stepped into the shadow cast by the huge Mountain Ash in the front yard, the sun burning golden at the edges.  No one must have this moment.  This moment must never be touched.