Sunday, April 1, 2012

From the Depths

Last night, instead of sleeping, I re-read Oscar Wilde's de Profundis. For those who don't know, its the letter a heartbroken Wilde wrote to the lover who denied him, betrayed him and got him thrown in prison for two years for gross indecency. Not the most upbeat book choice, but misery loves company. It's crazy how much it can hurt, even when you know it's the right move. All I know is that love is one messy thing. Ask poor Oscar. Love landed him in jail...

Anyway...After a nearly sleepless night, waking up to a tear-stained pillowcase and finally putting myself together enough to say "Amen," I have decided to focus on the task of getting reacquainted with myself... Who was I before? A fiery, brazen woman, I think. Or maybe a hopeless fawn looking for exactly what I eventually found? Was I ever an entity of my own? Or have I always been so weak, a simple echo of someone else's song?

The sun is starting to come out now and I'm starting to feel a little bit lighter. The sky has not fallen yet. I am still alive. Friday's hailstorm didn't blow away this tired body of dust and bones...and I still have poetry!

Rachel McKibbens. le sigh. Her writing is perfection and this two year old poem spoke all the way to my soul this morning. It feels a fitting welcome back to the world of the creative, the emotive, the single...

Happy National Poetry Month!

Last Love

BY Rachel McKibbens

To my daughters, I need to say:

Go with the one who loves you biblically.
The one whose love lifts its head to you despite its broken neck.
Whose body bursts sixteen arms electric to carry you, gentle, the way
old grief is gentle.

Love the love that is messy in all its too much,

The body that rides best your body, whose mouth saddles the naked salt
of your far gone hips, whose tongue translates the rock language of
all your elegant scars.

Go with the one who cries out for his tragic sisters as he chops the winter’s wood, the one whose skin
Triggers your heart into a heaven of blood waltzes.
Go with the one who resembles most your father. Not the father you can
point out on a map,
But the father who is here. Is your home. Is the key to your front door. Know that your first love will only

Be the first. And the second and third and even fourth will unprepare you for the most important:
The Blessed. The Beast. The Last love. Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind.

Because which of us wants to go with what can murder us? Can reveal to us our true heart’s end and its thirty years spent in poverty?
Can mimic the sound of our bird-throated mothers, replicate the warmth of our brothers' tempers? Can pull us out of ourselves until

We are no longer sisters or daughters or sword swallowers but, instead,

Women. Who give. And lead. And take and want

And want

And want

And want

Because there is no shame in wanting.

And you will hear yourself say: Last Love, I wish to die so I may come back to you new and never tasted by any other mouth but yours.
And I want to be the hands that pull your children out of you and tuck them deep inside myself until they are
Ready to be the children of such a royal and staggering love. Or you
will say:

Last Love,
I am old, and have spent myself on the courageless, have wasted too many clocks on less-deserving men, so I hurl myself at the throne of you
And lie humbly at your feet.

Last Love, let me never roll out of this heavy dream of you.
Let the day I was born mean my life will end where you end.
Let the man behind the church do what he did if it brings me to you.
Let the girls in the locker room corner me again if it brings me to you.
Let the wrong beds find me if it brings me to you.
Let this wild depression throw me beneath its hooves if it brings me to you.
Let me pronounce my hoarded joy if it brings me to you.
Let my father break me again and again if it brings me to you.

Last love, I let other men borrow your children. Forgive me.
Last love, I vowed my heart to another. Forgive me.
Last Love, I have let my blind and anxious hands wander into a room and come out empty. Forgive me.

Last Love, I have cursed the women you loved before me. Forgive me.
Last Love, I envy your mother’s body where you resided first. Forgive me.
Last Love, I am all that is left. Forgive me.
Last Love, I did not see you coming. Forgive me.

Last Love, every day without you was a life I crawled out of. Amen.
Last Love, you are my Last Love. Amen.
Last Love, I am all that is left. Amen.

I am all that is left.


thx to Jaha's World for the words!

1 comment:

  1. *hugs* Great entry and thanks for sharing the poem with us. Miss your face. :)