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New poem: Stealing Time

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@ -10,6 +10,99 @@
<email>vanevander@mayvaneday.org</email>
</author>
<entry>
<title>Stealing Time</title>
<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/s/stealing-time.txt" />
<id>https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/s/stealing-time.txt</id>
<published>2022-04-04</published>
<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
<pre>
The bike path has been sprayed
with meteors, brown and burnished
and leaking to yellow, to naught.
Trees have done their part to furnish
the path
with each and every fallen branch
they could spare. The flags are frayed,
marking the entrance to Dead End Shrine,
sandwiched between two rainy days
and welcoming this stolen time.
This stolen time,
I've come to find,
is the only place where I can live.
Leaving work early,
wings unfurling
to mark a time loop created,
these bike trips where far too long I've left
to not come home covered in muck and sweat
and yet somehow never do,
the severed hours after bedtime
when comes to me all these rhymes,
rest of family long self-sedated.
I don't like this waiting.
I don't like the parting
when comes time for my love to once more return home.
"Please don't go.
Either stay
or take
me with you."
Every natural process of life
that I've ever shied
away from
becomes
less able to terrify
with her at my side.
I've made my peace
with the regular bleed
whether from womb or breast,
the growth of velvet patches
along my hips and chest,
the hot flashes,
the persistent desire
to rip open my seams
and throw my guts to the fire.
But my brain refuses to cooperate with me.
It's stealing time,
stealing memories.
I know that forgetfulness is my domain,
but there's still some recollections
I'd like to remain.
There's still some reflections
I don't recognize.
Stealing someone's body,
looking out through their eyes,
wearing like a coat their spirit, their life.
It makes sense in the moment,
the logic of how their life goes,
but I wake up and I wonder
why
this stranger is so vivid
but not my own exploits in the Outside.
I promised her that when came
the day
for me to give up this vessel and die,
I'd let her climb into my bed with me
instead of kneeling at my bedside.
Emulating that which my mother
did, but trading one body for another.
One last breach out of the womb.
One last parent-induced cry.
And after we leave, I promise you
I'll make up for the stolen time.
</pre>
</article>]]>
</summary>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>Two Two</title>
<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/t/two-two.txt" />
@ -226,110 +319,4 @@ and naught else remains.
</summary>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>Carmine Red</title>
<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/c/carmine.txt" />
<id>https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/c/carmine.txt</id>
<published>2022-03-06</published>
<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
<pre>
March is Women's History
Month. Time to sit
down and reflect on all the shit
my ancestors went through
so that I could be
here today, collapsed in bed,
distressed,
wracked with anxiety,
in desperate need to be exhumed
from this disintegrating body.
I'm forgetting my own herstory.
Past entries in my journals
are becoming letters from foreign countries,
the other timelines where I am well,
doing well,
not at the bottom of a well.
The other timelines where I am making things
of worldwide importance,
where on my childhood detractors
I've gotten revenge.
Not wishing I was a bird
like those outside that now return
in preparation for spring.
It could have been so much worse.
Straitjacket, locked up, never heard
from again. Maybe lobotomized.
How many geniuses have met their demise
at the hands of a crude scalpel,
I wonder? And I, here,
how could I in this day or now convince
the padded-wall jailers
that the other soul that resides in me means well?
"She has dominion over
every part of me,
but *noli timere*: I have no desire
to harm my family."
Who would lis-
ten, not lock me up for ten
days, weeks, months, years
until I renounced this world within me so dear?
Tell me, can you hear the screams
from behind
tied-
on masks plastered with smiles
for the crime
of omitting domestic servitude from one's dreams?
Can you feel on your hands the blood spilled
from God's unwanted "blessing" that might instead kill
when it comes to term, woman coming to terms
that the Son who bled with promise to save
won't give her better than wires with which to lacerate?
Can you see how bright is
the future we might have had
if every woman brilliance
was not snubbed out at every chance?
The sheer weight
is enough to make
anyone go insane.
I'm forgetting my own herstory.
It seems some days
that things have forever been this way,
each day bleeding into the next,
record on repeat.
The slightest bit of thawing heat
feels like a bitter attack:
how dare I be reminded that
this isn't all I've ever had.
How dare anything have the audacity to remind
that one day I won't anymore be able to hide.
There will come a day when the sky
breaks and lets in cleansing sunshine.
And I'll have to look my mother in the face.
And I'll have to tell her that when I die
I'm going to a completely different place
than Heaven or Hell.
I'm going to remember the hell
that the men of all history have inflicted
and make a new world where to be what I am
is not a sin, not gravely iniquitous.
And she'll have to confer with Father and decide
if what I've done
is grave enough
to warrant the psych ward's involuntary hold.
This is my birthright as a female, isn't it?
The padded room's blistering cold.
</pre>
</article>]]>
</summary>
</entry>
</feed>

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poetry/index.html
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@ -143,6 +143,7 @@
│   ├── <a href="./s/skin.txt">skin.txt</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./s/sleepover2011.txt">sleepover2011.txt</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./s/somnolence.txt">somnolence.txt</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./s/stealing-time.txt">stealing-time.txt</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./s/strange-proposal.txt">strange-proposal.txt</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./s/strawberry.txt">strawberry.txt</a><br>
│   └── <a href="./s/sweet-summer.txt">sweet-summer.txt</a><br>
@ -169,7 +170,7 @@
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; └── <a href="./w/wme.txt">wme.txt</a><br>
<br><br><p>
22 directories, 119 files
22 directories, 120 files
</p>
<hr>

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Stealing Time
2022-04-04
***
The bike path has been sprayed
with meteors, brown and burnished
and leaking to yellow, to naught.
Trees have done their part to furnish
the path
with each and every fallen branch
they could spare. The flags are frayed,
marking the entrance to Dead End Shrine,
sandwiched between two rainy days
and welcoming this stolen time.
This stolen time,
I've come to find,
is the only place where I can live.
Leaving work early,
wings unfurling
to mark a time loop created,
these bike trips where far too long I've left
to not come home covered in muck and sweat
and yet somehow never do,
the severed hours after bedtime
when comes to me all these rhymes,
rest of family long self-sedated.
I don't like this waiting.
I don't like the parting
when comes time for my love to once more return home.
"Please don't go.
Either stay
or take
me with you."
Every natural process of life
that I've ever shied
away from
becomes
less able to terrify
with her at my side.
I've made my peace
with the regular bleed
whether from womb or breast,
the growth of velvet patches
along my hips and chest,
the hot flashes,
the persistent desire
to rip open my seams
and throw my guts to the fire.
But my brain refuses to cooperate with me.
It's stealing time,
stealing memories.
I know that forgetfulness is my domain,
but there's still some recollections
I'd like to remain.
There's still some reflections
I don't recognize.
Stealing someone's body,
looking out through their eyes,
wearing like a coat their spirit, their life.
It makes sense in the moment,
the logic of how their life goes,
but I wake up and I wonder
why
this stranger is so vivid
but not my own exploits in the Outside.
I promised her that when came
the day
for me to give up this vessel and die,
I'd let her climb into my bed with me
instead of kneeling at my bedside.
Emulating that which my mother
did, but trading one body for another.
One last breach out of the womb.
One last parent-induced cry.
And after we leave, I promise you
I'll make up for the stolen time.
***
CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander

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style.css
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