Thursday, February 07, 2008

Poem of the Week

Ok... I have the beginners bug, I guess, so I can't wait to post something else and I thought... maybe I'll post one of my poems every week and maybe if I do that, I'll even start writing some new ones, so here goes...

The poem I've chosen to start with is possibly/probably the best poem I've written. I wrote it in response to a particularly intense therapy session centuries ago when I was still a real person who lived out in the world.


In my throat is a rock with a dead child inside
Like the petrified fist of some giant god
It wraps around her small corpse
Her legs stick out, limp and dead
And the rock wonders what she is doing there
And why she died
It does not mean her any harm
It does not understand, even,
How she came to lie dormant and frail in it’s grasp
It does not understand, even
Who IT is
It remembers vaguely as though from some dim dream
That she needed to keep quiet
And stop struggling
But struggling against who or what
It cannot say
And it is frightened
By a vague sense of somehow having done wrong
It wishes she was gone
And then wonders who IT is without her
Maybe they are one being and not two
And it did not exist first
But slowly grew around her
Day after day after day
And year after year after year
Never noticing
Until in this moment
Suddenly awakening
It finds her long dead
It keeps thinking of the Wicked Witch of the East
And wishes some Dorothy would come along
And make those legs
So limp and dead,
So small
Shrivel up and go away.
But this is not Oz
Or Kansas either
But some no man’s land
And this body is not some evil witch
But a small child
She can’t be more than four
Silenced in a tomb of oblivious stone
That wishes
With whatever dim heart a stone can hold
That it could let her go,
Could bring her back to vibrant life
Wishes too somewhere in it’s confusion
That it knew how to cry
And wash itself clean
Of this child who holds it as captive
As it holds her.

Katherine E. Rabenau
October 5, 1999

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