Missing Poem

I started this letter before. I wrote in the steam in the shower glass. Often triggered by experiencing a place we shared, reaching for my moleskin notebook, then only looking at the paper. My eyes waited to read the words. The page remained empty. I have the gift of haruspicy. You live in another place and time, wearing eye glasses that blank out the entrails. Vision is clouded.
I exercised, painted and drank bottles of wine. I read. I prayed in my library. Nothing expelled the specter.

Your platitude, “time will heal.”

I gave it years.

The sore needed wound care. Finally it did seal up jagged.

At three in the morning it would awaken me pounding.

Turned the lights on, there was no bloody hole. Only arrhythmia playing tricks on the amount of oxygen to the brain.

Why are love songs about hearts? Better off with emotions in my feet to help me use that animal flight instinct. When I met you there was another contender. I stopped admonishing my soul. I’m great at stock picking. I conquer adventures.

My children are scarred. Tricked by a tin wind up box with promises, they don’t offer keys.

Splashing over writer’s block, diving from the platform without fear, swim up for my life.

I am at fault. A priest gave me absolution, but that Ash Wednesday cross is tattooed on my forehead.

Time does not heal. Time gives us perspective. The choice to forgive and love again.

I hope you have joy.

Still missing poem.

Photographs from my iphone Boston College Library