The terrible sting of sugar
doesn’t erase
my parents smiling into the camera,
a cemetery behind them,
my grandparents gravestone
beside them.
They all lie there
now.
All my necessary rituals
hold me,
keep me
standing.
All my necessary rituals
keep me
rigid
and stuck.
All my necessary rituals
are collapsing
letting me fall,
bruising me.
What rituals
can support
what I need
now?
Writing at the raw edge
opens the dimness
for a brief glimpse
of my now.
Writing at the raw edge
unlocks the gates
of my whirling
for a moment.
Writing at the raw edge
spews my dark lava
onto a screen
for a moment of now.
Christmas lights the colour of twilight,
and a heritage nativity set, -
A bleak celebration avoiding
plastic Santas or plastic regrets
Awaiting a new year, watching changes
from remembered winters,
listening to the noise of fools
heard on the tv news.