conquistadors.
2005-12-29 8:28 a.m.
after a year, my memories unraveled to the pointthat they were telephones and wires, brought to life
at a certain intonation of his voice.
we will sit, later, and talk about creating
monsters, about
making better decisions,
but not until i feel that i can trust you
to stay quiet, because
either way, there is something sinister to it, either him
or me
men, when you leave them, are consistently afraid
that you want to air their secrets (not realizing
that you've assimilated those secrets into your skin, and that your own
humiliation
is buried in the thoughts of being with a man who would do that
whatever that is.)
this is too simple to keep, but i must tell you - my thoughts
have become pieces (it's usually refered to as
disassociation)
(by professionals that want to take the beauty from experience.)
and i am having trouble with the effort of connecting, right now, to the hands that i am using, holed up
for safety
a reaction to what has begun, to what has sent me back
to my real beginnings.
i will talk about cycling, about the days that i have to
lock myself up in the bathroom, just to keep
from ruining the good i have been given
the destroyer in reform, how precious, how precise
my actions have become, in an effort of concealment, to keep from saying
the streets have begun to stretch, and seem to be leading
nowhere
there are days, now, when i consider
medications, quick fixes,
what it would be like to be completely
normal
raised by my country, i believe in instant solutions, in miracles
sent down from a pharmaceutical heaven,
in eternal life made worthwhile
by surgery and engineering
but i am also very afraid of
absolute values, of
consistency (i'm sure
this is a common struggle.)
i want to be able to make it through the distance, through the terror,
on my own, to face
the repurcussions of my actions
on my own
to lean only to listening ears
because there is still a long life before me.
this is not
a valiante fight that i have fashioned
over the right to life or death, this is me
cowering against the flooring, my knucles pressed
and making bruises in my thighs, something about it
that for years i took what i could get, and saw this coming, was taken
not once, but many times over,
with being quiet in the midst of tragedy, with being
subject to all things, and patient
until the day that i left, and found
despair akin to anger, shouting
curses at the front door i had sanctified
except, no, i left quietly. still quiet, spent the night in my car, and then a few more
between homes, with little to eat
until i settled a few miles outside the city, scrounging up from nothing
only to meet with
his voice, that had chased me, even after my protection, even after i had reached across the lines and told his parents
early morning
i am leaving him, you should be saviors
before the worst can happen
it was much later that the insult came, the letters that had followed me through
three addresses, unconsenting
and i had to stand against him, this is when the anger started, those days
stretching to almost a year, that found me
pulling my hair in the midst of circumstances, making poor decisions
and now, again, comes his image, redressed
as a ten year lengthy friend i trusted, who wrote to me
from san fransisco with his girlfriend
partially left and already leaving,
an outcast
and he has for months gone trying to convince me
of my sin and placement
of my wifely duties,
which did not,
in this case,
exist.
and i have been sitting in contrast, in the good
that i have built up, that has left me a believer
in my own ability to be peaceful, in the turmoil
of love letters posted the great world over, begging for me
to read them
give me back my old name, gomer, daughter of diblaim
and i will tell you how many times my faithfulness has been questioned, has been
answered with hesitation, has been
purged for its rightful place
i am a mother with no territory left to claim, my children
have taken their swords against me, and they say i wrestle with
the great and mighty power that has twice united me
twice tied me in my place
that i cannot be untied unless i tie again to some new master, as if a woman without
a man to anchor her
is useless
and behind my back, they say, "lo-ammi," they say,
"she is not my people."
they say, "israel.", they say, "she wrestles with
god,
but he will break her hips,
will leave her injured until the day she turns to us again."