My Paralell

My Parallel

“… you realize a poem is buried in there somewhere (in the unconscious) … there is a lot of unconscious truth in a poem. As you see me now, I am a lie.” – Anne Sexton

Here it is

a cold hard truth –

this poem is an ultimatum.

I refuse to mince words. This

lunge, heave, & knock under

the blackest of suns, it is not

living.

It is a definite kind of sorrow

a simmering demise, no wiles

could confuse. It is the most

lucid admission I can propose.

I am no longer meant for this

cutting animation. I could pen

poem after poem to ease you

but they would be lies after lies

after lies, as I am ideologically

unsound. This is not rhetoric

nor is it a threat but simply an

attempt to valorize the requisite

for voluntary exile. I know that

I am a conscious creation and I

have tried too hard to live by

painstakingly ruthless editing,

revising, polishing my veneer

but the language of madness

swayed me into the sinuous

sphere of Death’s clean clinch.

You can go ahead and try to

dismantle of the myth of me.

Be sure to include the fact I

was resistant to the corrosive

battle toward artistic sincerity

that I bowed out not for weak-

ness but in strength. I chose the

trees, the fish, the Moon, water

the rain, river and oceans, caves,

Angels, and a voice speaking

only to me in fairytale and fiction.

I cannot highlight the contingency

plan for you. There is none. There

is only the affirmation of absolute

divinity. Do not cry for me. I am

not praiseworthy for your tears.

You in your judgement and your

acrimony have made that quite

clear.

You are relinquished of all agency.

Leave me to soft hymns, and a true

internal measure set to sing me home.

You might hear me linger in frank

laughter some time or in a postponed

heartfelt prayer you might recite to

yourself when you’ve realized it is

too late. You might catch a glimpse

of my old body when the wind stirs

in the bleached sand beneath your

summer feet, maybe even in a star.

And, at last let me make myself

perfectly clear – I am not ashamed.

Not of disappearing into the ether

and not for following in the valiant

footsteps of those who have struggled

                        and succumbed.

I will be free.

Of ache.

Of verdict.

Of the attention afforded.

***

I probably shouldn’t be reading poems by Anne Sexton or about Sylvia Plath right now while a loved one has taken quite ill. Alas, reading and now this uber heavy writing has helped me to put some of this anxious energy and overwhelmed-ness somewhere and direct my ire away from tempting targets.

I am not myself so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m forgetful or distracted or unable to show up for something or say the right things or act how you are used to. It doesn’t mean anything other than I am tired and sad and even a little frightened. I will be blunt and admit I care little for the opinions of others, especially now. I will not accept judgments and/or vitriol in my loved one’s name, even in my own but will fight for her because she is unable. It’s what family does or what they are supposed to do. It’s simple, if you’ve got nothing nice to say …

My heart is the heaviest it has been since losing my father and I am painfully aware some don’t and won’t understand. I don’t need you do. All I ask is for kindness because at this time I’m not open for any other kind of business.

In propinquity,

Nic