segmented – cemented

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Held in seconds
a daughter, splits into a segment
like an orange,Ā  Ā  like the leavesĀ  Ā  Ā just yesterday
clingingĀ  Ā  Ā to the maple treeĀ  Ā  Ā  Ā  do you remember
the ones in the yard? the roots snaking to tangle
pushing to reach, breaking concrete, the sewage pipe
in pieces, testament to determinate natureĀ  Ā  Ā they had to be
felled; in the umbra of an exhale I feel your tightness
coming on, the June green blushing bride as she wed
herselfĀ  Ā  to darkness.

I trip on your guilt, always carryingĀ  Ā  the crushing
weightĀ  Ā  Ā of words;Ā  Ā amĀ  Ā  Ā  cast back to other
sentences,Ā  Ā  Ā the silently leviedĀ  Ā  Ā accusations
the worst –
a sisterly demand as to why I didn’t know
plantain’s propertiesĀ  Ā  Ā  other than as weed, my hands
always earth deep dirty, yanking pulling to
eliminate; the cyst on my cheek causing
no end of ugliness;
your shrinking back, in answer
fear treading for tears, determined
to hold onto a world no one knew
never existed.

I’m catapulted into the ripeness
of green prickly vines,Ā  Ā  Ā  witness
to what it meansĀ  Ā  Ā  to be alive, thick stalks
reachingĀ  Ā  Ā  indeterminate
as if to proveĀ  Ā  Ā the sun was closer than you
would allow,Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  the tomatoes ripening up, no
answer tippling your lips, desperation in
your eyes,Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā  Ā regarding your sister, like a stranger
a wilderness on the tongueĀ  Ā  Ā  Ā  as if crying
“I’ve lost my child, I’ve lost my child”
–Ā  I wonder how many timesĀ  Ā  Ā I was supposed to
turn the other cheek.

Ā© P.A. Kynda Palazy.
All rights reserved. 2018 ā€“
after “Intermittence” by Luisa A. Igloria
(excerpt)
Time, which I am always breathing
in increments, begins to dictate
again its oldest letter: it ticks
in the ear, it mimics the voice
of an owl in the earliest hours
or hurtles against the screens,
a small, soft body fleeing the talons
of another. Through the fog of sleep,
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Pat: willow88switches

I write because words scrape and itch to be given body and form. Never underestimate the seductive power of a decent vocabulary.

22 thoughts on “segmented – cemented”

    1. LOL@ the idea of perhaps being “just unwilling gardeners” …. that’s a damn good question!

      I like how you’ve taken this, interpreted it, made certain connections and asked some tough questions … to which, clearly, we can never know the answers — Fate. Destiny. Free will + choice. Karma. Dharma.
      All blown open and up, in this field of possibilities, or perhaps, blood red dreams.

      thanks for your wonderful comment Bjorn šŸ™‚
      (it’s lifted my spirits on yet another tired, grey and extremely sunless, rainy day)

      Like

      1. ohhh … fog … that can be so enticing, ambient …. even soothing, unless one is trying to make one’s way about in the thick of it …. I’d take fog here, – it’s been raining, or extremely grey – almost since mid-October … sigh … it seems “sunlight is a high priced commodity” …. šŸ˜¦

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  1. This is incredibly rich and evocative in words and image! šŸ˜Š Especially love; “Iā€™m catapulted into the ripenessĀ 
    of green prickly vines,Ā witness to what it means to be alive.” šŸ’–

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I was hooked by the opening lines and a daughter splitting ‘into a segment like an orange – the memory and the reality of motherhood? I could feel the despair in the second stanza, with its ‘crushing weight of words’ and ugliness. But oh, the final stanza!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I have wondered that. There comes a point when tolerance becomes over tolerance to one’s own detriment. There is so much in my life I have tolerated and now looking back should never have done so.
    I loved this personal poem couched in tomatoes weeds maple trees and sewer pipes.:) My interpretation is probably not yours but that’s poetry.LOL

    Liked by 1 person

    1. actually, I’m guessing, by nature of your comment, that your interpretation is probably very astute and intuitive … and it’s greatly appreciated šŸ™‚

      and the idea of tolerance, – it is a very curious to wrestle question, within one’s own self – and then to consider, how much, perhaps, others too, within their own relationships with self, and others, especially siblings, family etc. have perhaps, allowed themselves to get lost for the trees, etc. etc.

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  4. The final stanza. That final stanza nails this. I can think of worse things than being catapulted into tomatoes. Expecially the green ones, the ones that old such promise of what is to be. I never had a sibling or a child. I’ve had tons of tomatoes though through the years. I picked my last green tomatoes before the first frost. Some I have wrapped in newspapers and have stashed on top of the freezer where it is warm. the others I made green tomato relish, vinegary yet sweet, full of spice. That is the promise of green tomatoes.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. A land that went back to nature. Seems maybe humans of the animal world survived. It wasn’t the weed we were expecting that took us down but rather a seemingly harmless fruit that was doing the damage. Not entirely the Garden of Eden nut not our current idea of Utopia either. Powerless as the worm and not much better off.
    I enjoyed trying to interpret but so much passed me by. I’d like to have been Dan Simmon’s worm of Drood in your mind when you wrote this. Or would I have had too much competition from the influence af an antiquated weed soon to be losing its piwer?
    ..

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    1. Sometimes, a poem should just be read for the story, which, I think, is kind of “open” enough here, and if it seems too difficult to search for “deeper” meanings, then maybe you shouldn’t worry too much about that … because either the writer has failed in their attempts or the reader is just not ready to understand or receive the specific words; either way, you shouldn’t apologize for not necessarily catching all possible meanings etc.

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