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last ship to the West

I hear the heat blowing through the vent
the serene thrum of the oxygen concentrator
the ticking of the clock I bought on a whim
and that doesn't ever tell the right time
not even the cat is here
just me
and my thoughts
I think of my figurines
the crystal ones
the porcelain ones
the wood and plastic ones
all somehow expressing
an aspect of me or someone I dearly love
she keeps watch as a nightlight
although her beautiful wings have fallen off
symbolic of our broken relationship
yet the light of mutual love still shines
the wolves that guard me
the manifestations of God's power
working in me; a butterfly princess
and a dark angel who has seen
places that are too dark to be described
He said today that my poem was dark.
I said, "I think of it as a wound that won't heal."
doesn't he understand
that when you rip away people
who are integral to the fabric of your reality
they leave holes that cannot be mended?
You can put other people in the holes
but they are patches and not true re-weavings
if I were a dress, someone
would have thrown me away by now
not even in good enough shape
to donate me to Goodwill
I am linked in triplicate now
to strengthen that which was
too weak to live
and even so, it is barely enough
and I write this on
another night I cannot sleep
and the drugs that were to carry me there
were absorbed by my body
into inertness
oh Frodo
where is your last ship
to the West?



leaves by meowvatar
Elizabeth Aletheia

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November 2012

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