“I was going to make you a cake, but I had no eggs,” she cried and then crumpled to the floor. No consoling her. She was crushed, fragile as the empty space where the egg carton used to be–a shadow of a former delicate, susceptible embryo container.
She too had been plucked from her mother’s warmth too soon, arresting her world in a devil’s playground of tears and fearful misfortunes always on the verge, always.
“It’s okay, really okay. It was their time to fly. You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault. I love cake, but I love you more. Come up and sit beside me this time, just now.”
She wiped her nose in the plaid flannel folds of her elbow and rose. It was over.
Hard to get up sometimes, pick myself up from a fall
when every day’s battle is a sword fight with gravity.
“Don’t ever trip,” she told me, “because you’re done.”
That unicycle riding the edge of a fence, well, it’s hard.
Teetering masquerade as shakey equilibrium traces lies.
And circles make hopeful promises but terrible homes.
One word awry, one awful image, and all turns lopsided,
my brains screaming out my ears while my gut collapses,
and I simply can not recover steps, a broken frail rhythm.
“Who are you to punch me in the waking dreams I made
to stay the course, mime the normal, and be-fool myself?”
What a mindless, insensitive sot to remind me who I am!