Saturday, March 26, 2011


photograph Caroline Gerardo Copyright 2011

Caroline Gerardo Copyright March 2011

Pain exists on my lips. I do not feel it. The upper is not cracked or bleeding, the scar tissue is from the grief. I cut my finger with new Fiscar gardening shears. I see bones. I stitched it myself.

How long must I pull thorns from my mouth? Is there a measurement when I will no longer miss you?

Did my father die yesterday or in the Devonian Period? In dreams, he is a young man telling me penance things.

I awaken. I write down the words on a yellow stained notepad next to my bed. After little rest, in the morning I cannot read the language. The words are in ancient Panjabi, not Farsi. The handwriting is poor from not wearing glasses. I drink clouded moonlight. What did he say?

Tasbeeh phiree par dil ni phiriya Kee lena tasbeeh phair kay Hu- Throw the rosary beads away if your prayers remain unanswered. When the cross on my necklace meets the clasp I recite the whole rosary. This happens several times a day. It is beginning to suck up my waking hours.

I started sleeping with the blinds wide open. This allows peeking reflections off the swimming pool. A snow goose hit the mirrored surface. No, it was an owl. He has a pearly wingspan. A soothsayer who purposely hides the truth from those he loves.

I left the door open to the surf. I wake up at two and three and four. I look over on your pillow. You are not there with your hands on your chest. I believe I prefer the earlier trick of just going back to dream and seeing you in my head wound.
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