in your deepest grief
i confess: i do not wish you peace.
i do not grace your door with the
cut flowers of ease– a false bouquet which
will love you less than week.
there is no straight path through,
and you did not ask for this,
but we cannot hold our breath for
a triggerless existence– we will waste away
at the kitchen sink waiting for such a dream.
no, i do not wish you peace in this,
but i do wish you muscle. capacity.
a bay window of tolerance so wide, i wish
you sweet evenings spent on that sill,
watching the sun lower, greeting your
neighbours and
all your first wounds.
i wish you muscle for every strike. fascia
for the fears that gnaw at the bones of you.
tendons to hold your soft, hidden self together.
i do not wish you peace, but for all my
right angles i wish you the data of resilience.
i wish your nervous system proof that you
can live through something like this,
so it never doubts you again.
CarnivalDark 