The woman and her possessions were parted.
It could have been that she fell and they stayed
Suspended in the air
Little wings humming invisibly
Her phone, her purse, her keys
All still
As she plummeted towards the pavement.
Or perhaps she was the one that remained
And they were jerked up by
A tugging hand, a puppeteer
A weaver’s fingers drawing them through heavy fabric.
Oh, we know the unlovely truth,
That they were all in motion.
The woman
Her things
The earth
Everything moves
But when we fall
Or when things are wrenched away from lazy hands
We notice how far away we are from where we were
We are not six now
Or twenty six
We do not live in that sweet flat that had the lovely fireplace
Or sleep on the soft flannel sheet that once belonged to your grandfather
We are miles apart
And I am here
The truth is rarely beautiful
Perhaps I am the puppeteer
And pull on other people’s strings
On other people’s things
And they will feel like they were still and I had wrenched and tugged
Or maybe they will believe that I arranged the fall
The sin is mine
And I am hungry Eve, and he’s the wily snake
Oh god
I made myself laugh sharply then
The reference to his snake and my hand, tugging.
Oh, there’s the unlovely truth again.
Everything moves
The woman
Her things
The earth
They were already in motion
But now’s the wrench.
And now’s the time we see
How far away things are from where they were
They are miles apart
And I am here
This is wonderful. And I’m crying for some reason. The wrench perhaps?
Ooof.
You are somethin’.
Oh my god – you have to publish that. Have too. If you don’t I will haunt you. Seriously.
You dear woman, you. Your words are my favorite.
They’re my favourite too. I’m back for another read of this post. It’s haunting me.
The truth may rarely be beautiful but your words -your truth -is. And hard and raw and powerful and wonderful all at the same time.
Yes – Catherine W., Alison, Jen, Vera Kate, Jill – yes.
Frail and faltering in the wind of your compelling. I’ll have to borrow from the others.
I hate to be silent when you write, Jess, not because you need to hear anything from me. Because you deserve to be recognized.
Every time, it feels like being punched. And my first thought is, hit me again.
Swing away.
Cathy in Missouri