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Poem I found from past

A Violent Change of Season

Today,
I cut the white warp
off the loom,

removed all trace of failure.
Another day,
it might have been worth

repairing.
Not today:
today I cut things off,

I cut things free.
I make a ball of the wool
I dispose of.

Last night
I looked at the clean white square
of wall

and I was terrified
of the loneliness in
a clean white square of wall.

The baby is not
a baby
any longer.

When she discovered
the workman’s truck
had squashed her little red hoe

her red heart beat thunderous
sobs and chokes,
inconsolable despair.

For two hours
the clench of arms, the
promise of replacements,

sympathy
did not ease that first
traumatic shock,

that sense of first loss.
I did not stand on the sideline
of pain.

I jumped into those crowded waters
naked and nervous;
I got wet.

My little girl cannot save me
from the wall’s insistent
whiteness.

Even a charged hug
won’t do,
won’t remove the glare.

I float off on wretched
little seas of sickening ebb and flow,
a violent change of season.

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