All work by supersatellite is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 Canada License.
A lifetime spent
while you taught
these careful hands
and believe me,
they really broke
I watched the snow blanket the earth and through the restless devils in my eyes, I burned the last promise of your validity. I must formidably admit, I cannot go on remembering you in the secrecy of my childhood. Not the way I used to. Those heavy hands and warm arms that once wrapped around me tightly are now a noose against my throat. I’ve finally mastered all the lessons you taught me — boot to strap. Safety and love are only mere relics in our hearts, I know this now. You knew it too. You knew as I waded through oceans searching and searching, that all this time the little things I reached for were only stretched. These desires aren’t patient. They’re pushed beyond continents and mountains and I am not yours anymore, just as evenly as you were never mine. The the truth can be so blinding. I know better than to ache in the flames of candles that melt under a promising gaze. I won’t wish for you now. I won’t wish for those evenings you spent showing me how to twirl pasta against a spoon. Like an artisan flourish of craft, you were a Roman wonder in my youthful eyes. I won’t pray for you. I cannot. Not while I’m burning on quiet bend and knee, gratefully clutching my rosary the way you showed me. So tight between my fingers, my knuckles clenched and ached for my own salvation, never knowing it would be your carefully crafted hands that would so effortlessly deny it to me. Not all the books and novels in the world could repress what I am finally understanding now. When I stand at the edge and I look at these hands, all I see is you. Your work, your art, your masterpiece. I suppose in all this time I’ve learned, despite my relentless resistance, we truly are not so different after all.
I am tired of trying to hold things together that cannot be held. Trying to control what cannot be controlled. I am tired of denying myself what I want for fear of breaking things I cannot fix. They will break no matter what we do.
Do I believe in it anymore? No, for what is there left to believe in. The promise of salvation left these wandering lips long ago. So tired they were from searching the bay. I often wonder how things clamor down to silence, even the greatest of orchestrations must soon make rest. I sigh, quiet, and I think even the forest is made of bones. For when I asked, like a screaming child in the wilderness, you prayed back none. I’m getting too old to count all the tombstones I’ve carved from stolen memories, the archeology of my heart. I wish I could understand distant days and how the earth spun like your hair, twirling in a field of wild daisies. I’ll remember you like that always, small petals pressed between pages, crinkled and foreign — more dreams to fade I suppose, little things to forget. This chest is so tired from tugging and carrying on, endless flowers at your doorstep. You never took a second to look, to see that I pulled everything out of those pages for you. Your footsteps are cold now, the field overgrown, but there’s a light in your window sometimes. The crack is too small, the light too faded and for once I have to wonder if I am the man looking out or looking in. Displaced. This is all too familiar. More dreams to fade, so it seems. Flowers to waste. There’s just too many little things I must learn (I’m trying) to forget.