Cranky with the Dude

Photo by Brian Patrick Tagalog

 My "Poetry and Memory" class at Sarah Lawrence had its last class on Wednesday.  I actually wrote my last poem for the class during my memoir class when someone else was talking.  Yes, that's the kind of student I was and it seems that at age 69 (heh heh heh) I'm still that kind.

So, here's my last minute poem from the prompt, "write about wounds"

 

 

WOUNDS

 

How can I talk about wounds without mentioning Yours?

 

Fuck You. Fuck You and the ass you rode in on when You

went to your death for love and justice.

 

I was not anxious for suffering. Wasn’t ready for his

wounded brain’s release of his bodily function.

Wasn’t ready for our life of gradual forgetting

 

as forty years evaporated, one exploded neuron

at a time. It took so long.  It was so hard.  And You,

how did you answer my prayer for all to end?

When I told you I couldn’t bear it anymore?

 

You let my rage release as he locked me out again.

You let me forget the other ways inside.

You let me pound on the door and call him with

all my power.  You let my hand go through the glass,

an instant geyser from my artery.  Blood everywhere.

 

This is how You show mercy, is it? Saving me by

offering me death?  Answering my prayer with blood,

a neighborhood of rescuers, friends taking charge of my

demented sweetheart, seven hours of face-masked rest in ER,

and a brilliant surgeon?

                                    Huh. Ok.  I get it. I get it.

 

Your prayer about losing that damn cup is for all of us,

isn’t it?  We all want to let our bloody fate pass from us.

But Life (or your Dad) isn’t about that. Life is learning

that love is loss and compassion is costly. Life is suffering.

But life is also others acting as Your wounded hands, others

walking with Your wounded feet, carrying Your love and grace

for wholeness and healing, even if they’ve never known Your name.

 

 

© Kake Huck, 2022