POETRY

Silk

A poem for the wounded

And so the tissue-thin skin covering the scar sealing in the hurt and anger and grief and burning, scalding emptiness has stood well against the test of time. Or so I think.

A famous sportsman has a skiing accident A businessman dies in a London underground station Another throws himself from a tall building in the City

(see him, up there, look!)

An actor’s life is cut short — snap — just like that, the delicate strands of the healing unravel, tear g — a — p — e and the wound is opened perylene maroon glistening I prod, curious I oooooooooze

My throat contorts to restrain the tears My eyes sting acid burn

My body reminds me grief is not an arrow — — — ->fired from A to B. It me — an — ders

traverses peaks and chasms, navigates switchbacks and launches me into the air my parachute is gone only ropes snake my ankles

Free f a l l beckons and just, just when I think I will hit the ground I am yanked back, ligaments and muscles tearing with effort to keep on going.

It’s the hardest work I ever imagined. Because that sorrow, that jolt, that catch of breath isn’t for those who have died or are unaware. It is for the souls left behind, making new patterns out of just getting through wanting it to be temporary-permanent-over-never to end.

What’s left on the other side? It is this. Just this.

A version of this poem was originally written by me and shared on my writing/blogging platform which you can find here. I decided it needed some work, so here we are, version 2.0

I’m a British writer (poetry, prose, you name it). In case you were wondering, I used a pen name on my blog for the reasons I described in this post.

Thank you to Write Under the Moon for publishing my work and for all the wonderful feedback from the editors and other writers who choose this publication as their home. I am enjoying reading stunning poetry and learning, learning, learning as I go.

Thank you for reading!