Grief

I don’t want the oceans I let flow 
to simply pool around us, only to dissipate, 
evaporate, disappear into drains, 
as though it was merely a shower and not a sea 
capable of drowning me.

I want you to keep my rivers of tears in cups, 
in chalices, and drink them every time I share them, 
so I know, I know that you share my sorrow.

I want you to embrace me, 
as the waters crash around us 
and the winds whip our skin 
as our lungs burn and we struggle to breathe 
but we have each other,

in the never ending expanse of sea, waiting, waiting, 
waiting for the day I no longer have oceans in me 
and I can close my mouth, wring myself dry 
and we can step on to land together.

Cake

All the confections in the land
sat atop the table in front of her,
and she pondered and pondered
which would be the most delicious,
the most scrumptiously saccharine,
and she deliberated and deliberated
– paralysed with indecision
over which would be the most devilishly divine dessert.

Pick carefully, she berated herself internally, 
what if what I choose 
isn’t as amazing as what I could have? 
I have to pick one, I have to pick 
the right one, she bemoaned the burden,

the privilege, of having choices 
somehow never thinking to taste a forkful of each plate, 
so blinded by her quest for the perfect pastry was she,

until finally, there were no more sweets to be had at all. 
Perfectly fine cakes, now all rotten, dry, 
past their prime, 
in a search for an elusive purity.

Too much time had passed, and it was too late. 
Before a buffet of just decaying desserts she would have to lay 
hungry, wanting 
never having tried a single slice.

I Have Never Seen My Father’s Face

My father’s face
is often shrouded  
cloudy with cigarette smoke as he shoos me away,
rebuffing his little girl’s attempts for affection  
protecting me from a hazard
only he brings into our home.

My father’s face  
is often faraway
like seeing him in a fog,
I cup his face in my hands but I can never see him clearly.

My father’s face  
is often wrapped up
in thoughts and grand schemes  
that will always be bigger than me.

My father’s face
is often elsewhere
turned towards a world I have only seen in glimpses
We speak across the table
but I can never seem to reach him.

My father’s face
is often fractured
I try to put him back together again
with the scraps of his life he would offer me
but I never seem to have all the pieces.