The Lighthouse's Lament

Tue, 04/12/2016 - 15:37 -- agarnai

I

A house

Count down the days until she leaves.

 

Day 200:

She stuffs me with her pie recipes

Old family photos

Third generation quilt

Paints me a new color

Or really

Paints me the eggshell white

I once was

In vintage yellowed photographs

Found in my attic

 

Day 179:

She plants tulip bulbs

In front of

My bay windows

That complement the fresh coat of paint

Better than the daffodils scattered wild

In my yard

 

Day 165:

They sit on the bench

In the garden

His insides coil

The sky and sea blur together

No horizon

Only blue

He is trapped

In the illusion of her tomorrow

 

Day 151:

She went out to town

He packs a bag

Takes the boat

Leaves

There was a note

But it got lost behind

The end table

 

Day 137:

She climbs up my tower

Fixes my lightbulb

I hear her car-alarm heart thump with every revolution

Where is he?

Where is he?

Where is he?

 

Day 126:

She looks to the sea

And hopes the blessed waves

Consistently gracing her

With their presence

Will bring him back

But the gnashing mouths of water

Eating the endless night sky leave only

Carcasses of the ocean

That now line the shelves in my living room.

 

Day 124:

She emails him at 3:00 AM

Greets moon’s glow as an old friend

Asks where he is

Let me know if you need anything else

Hand extending toward a person who

Jerks the arm out of her socket

But does not

Reach back

 

Day 83:

I cannot protect her

From the rain

That slips and drips

Its way through

My cracks

Space craters

She punches my walls

Causing bruises

Ruptures

Means to find him there

In the map of her mistakes

Same way she looks for him

In the roots of her plants

Veins in her wrist

Rivers coursing

Roads looping

Bridges crossing

All this searching

Colliding with him

Eventually

 

Day 76:

I cannot tell her

That she won’t find him there

I cannot tell her

That it is not a map of her mistakes

I cannot speak

I cannot even

protect her

From the rain

All I can do

Is search with every revolution

For a sign

If it would only keep her going

But I can reach light so far

To tell her he swims outside my radius

 

Day 43:

He finally responds

Sails in another lighthouse’s orbit now

Does not need anything else

Does not want his razor back

His towel

His tool box

He wants to forget

But he ignores

The fact that

He has already taken

Her light

Without asking

And she is not getting it back

 

Day 14:

She boxes up the

Pie recipes

Throws out the seashells

Guts my insides

Keeps the wallpaper

Strangers walk in

Traipsing across my foyer

Children giggle in my tower

Old men trample the flowers in my yard

 

Day 1:

Her father’s green pickup truck

Whisks her away to new adventures

 

To me

She was afternoon summer showers

Good morning kisses

Easter eggs of vibrant creation

 

To her

I was the choked bonfire

Resting in her empty belly

The last dangling string

To be yanked from her memory

 

I

A house

Still stands

 

I

A house

Stained from imprints

Of oils

From her skin

 

I

A house

Whisper the

Uttered words

Of her time with me

In the flittering fragrance

Of her flowers

And the stinging salt air

Of the sea

 

She

The owner

Is temporary

But not forgotten

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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