Waiting Till the Next Breaking Point.
August 01, 2020
The Supermoon was last night
We stopped to appreciate it for
A moment, admiring the
Way it lit up the clouds
This night is wet and cold
Missing the Supermoon’s
Optimism. We set out for a brisk
Walk, round and round the neighborhood
Sometimes saying what needs to be
Said makes things permanently worse.
Confessing one’s insecurities doesn’t
Make them go away, but makes the
Others more aware, setting the stage
For nasty exploitation. How frightening
It can be, to still be young but
Getting older, and to see, with a
Front row seat, that those you
Held as constants are really
Very unhappy, and it’s not your
Fault but in a way it is. The
Tendons in your ankle snap when
It’s this cold and you didn’t
Prepare them for a walk, for
You weren’t prepared yourself.
Throwing on the first available
Pair of unwashed pants.
Denim doesn’t suit either of you
The way it used to. Neither do the
Violent outbursts, Mom calling out to
Never come back.
Sitting on the couch in a half-drunk
Stupor night after night, the
Itinerary’s only pushed back
A half-hour to accommodate this
Stilted walk, once around then
Once more. The darkest part’s
The home stretch, covered by a
Dense pack of trees, the only
Light comes from the approaching
Truck illuminating our backs, we
Hear it coming and fall into
A single-file line, to take
Up less space, how you always
Want to take up less space, at
The breakfast table, in political
Conversation. He is not the enemy
But you’d rather stay quiet, just
As you do now. One foot in front
Of the other. But your shoes untied
So you have to stop, he walks ahead
And your shadows elongate as the
Headlights draw nearer. I
Contemplated jumping in front of the
Moving vehicle, how much easier it’d
Make things for me and father both,
But the thought scared me too much
And there was still the issue of
My shoe. One of the laces is
Gnawed on from the puppy we
Bought to fix things. There is a
Little girl back at home who’s
Very upset. She doesn’t know
How to process her emotions
However and sits in the basement
Covered in an old blanket completely
Numb as if suddenly struck by
A paralyzing illness, the kind
That takes your breath away but
Ups the production of words floating
Around in your head. Sleep with
A pen in one hand waiting to
Feel compelled but you’ll never
Sign-off on anything. What’d
Be the use? And what’s the
Use of processing anyway
We wonder to ourselves as
We try to anticipate the feeling
We’ve had our entire lives. The
Result a stopping-starting stream of verbal
Diarrhea, his words, not mine.
Mother worries for the wrong
Reasons. The root of it all is far
More sinister and inescapable and
Neither of us seems to be able
To place a finger on it. Fingers
Move up and down and both
Men crave the touch of soft skin,
It’s been far too long, much overdue
And the formalities would have to be
Skipped. Not that anything like that
Would ever actually happen. It feels
Good to be working again and
He can say all he wants about wanting
You to be a good person and nothing more
But you’ll never convince yourself that’s true. And
Tonight most definitely won’t be
The night as you fall into bed with
Your jacket still on. A measly
Rain begins to fall and he stands in
The middle of it, wondering if just
One more can would do the trick. Neither
Will forget the night’s walk and it’s
Unsatisfactory conclusion. Both’ll continue to live
In the discomfort of their own home, and it
May be years until things begin to change.
Mother has tears in her eyes. And
To think her special day was
Coming soon. Filling the bucket from
The ghostly stream and dispensing
The contents over a muffin pan.
Muffins for breakfast after
Everyone’s had a night to sleep
(At least most everyone) may rejuvenate
The facade enough to keep it
Going for the summer. At that
Point, other houses may become
Available, though no one fancies
Moving out too soon. That’s always
The worst position to be in.
But we’re thinking Calgary,
After we play out our careers.
Until then, muffins and
Beer. There’s money to be
Made, Catholic guilt, and the
News cycle, all dead ends
Much like the walk which we
Avoid, generally. Oh, lost money
Is the answer. So, aren’t
You proud,