When your father's upstairs
But no one's at home
You will try to recall pleasant memories
And fail.
They are too distant.
Blotted out by the shadow
Of a wine glass;
Of an empty vodka bottle
And a carton of orange juice.
"When a father drinks everyone drowns"
They once said to me.
"And the carousel goes round and round"
They added.
But even those voices are distant;
In vain I wrap them around my body
And draw myself inward.
(Like a cocoon,
Like a blanket fort.)
But they're too thin to bring warmth.
So once again I am desert ground,
Cracked lips.
A skeleton
Without enough skin.
My mind was a wasteland,
Ribs showing,
Rattling defiantly like
Bamboo windchimes;
The peaceful sound of hollow places
Rippling out,
Vibrating.
'Where is my mind?'
They asked in turn,
Nudging each other encouragingly.
My eyes were watery and unblinking;
They were as fingers wrapped around a trunk of lead,
Carving out their conjurings,
The weight of their intent answering,
Ringing,
As they drew a rabbit hole,
Crisp and clean,
Like a shiny apple
I'd never eat.
My mind was a wasteland,
Ribs showing,
Rattling defiantly like
Bamboo windchimes;
The peaceful sound of hollow places
Rippling out,
Vibrating.
'Where is my mind?'
They asked in turn,
Nudging each other encouragingly.
My eyes were watery and unblinking;
They were as fingers wrapped around a trunk of lead,
Carving out their conjurings,
The weight of their intent answering,
Ringing,
As they drew a rabbit hole,
Crisp and clean,
Like a shiny apple
I'd never eat.