This poem was written in December of 2007, at the end of a year in which I had slipped several times on ice and injured myself, my house caught on fire and my mother had a massive stroke.
I recently re-discovered this poem on my computer.
Fire and Ice
To live is to be vulnerable.
I'm afraid of the ice.
I'm afraid of getting hurt.
I'm afraid.
My mother, once so strong and fearless, a lioness, a bitch,
lies wounded, helpless.
Frail, broken, she cries out
in desperation;
her sorrow shakes me
like a rag.
I huddle in bed, wrung out, hiding, slipping into deranged dreams. I wake
strung out on fear.
I am stripped of pretense, I am unclad.
The fire marked me first. I am a public property, a walking
receptacle for compassion, empathy, pity,
kind words.
I am filled to the brim
with good deeds;
I stagger under their weight.
I am unmasked.
I am humbled.
I am excruciatingly aware.
My mother's stroke felled me.
I scrabble for purchase.
The ice is so slippery,
and so hard;
and I am so vulnerable, wide-eyed,
afraid.
12/02/07
I recently re-discovered this poem on my computer.
Fire and Ice
To live is to be vulnerable.
I'm afraid of the ice.
I'm afraid of getting hurt.
I'm afraid.
My mother, once so strong and fearless, a lioness, a bitch,
lies wounded, helpless.
Frail, broken, she cries out
in desperation;
her sorrow shakes me
like a rag.
I huddle in bed, wrung out, hiding, slipping into deranged dreams. I wake
strung out on fear.
I am stripped of pretense, I am unclad.
The fire marked me first. I am a public property, a walking
receptacle for compassion, empathy, pity,
kind words.
I am filled to the brim
with good deeds;
I stagger under their weight.
I am unmasked.
I am humbled.
I am excruciatingly aware.
My mother's stroke felled me.
I scrabble for purchase.
The ice is so slippery,
and so hard;
and I am so vulnerable, wide-eyed,
afraid.
12/02/07
