Thursday, 6 March 2008

Groanings too deep for words

When I speak about it now
I see November mist.
That damp afternoon of my life.

It goes with excitement
and fear: my body's truth.
Opening my freedom

like a letter bomb,
seeing everything

Surviving, I hear:
'You alright?
Where does it hurt?'

How do you measure
How do you tell of

amputations this invisible?
See, I smile, I talk,
I walk...

I even speak about it now
without a tremor in my voice
when I need to say their names.

And the reasons have faded too.
Like an old print in the sun.
Leaving residues of something

which isn't exactly guilt
but wears the same drab colour
and which jolts me awake at two

to choose and choose
and choose again
what always seems

and will remain so

--Maggie Mountford

Today has been a very bad day. They come around about every 3 months or so, so my husband says. This wound is profoundly deep and will never, ever, ever heal. In the deepest depths of myself, there is not, nor will ever be, self-forgiveness. These feelings are too primitive--primal--and so must remain unnamed. A tempest, then a hollow echo. An abiding ache.