Together, we sat counting his demons,

like crayons from a box.

So many colorful versions of the soul.

Up against the wall:

Jim, George, Nathaniel…
Prepare for execution!

Shadows cast against the innocence
of dawning light, a stable beige wall.

Bi-Polar, Schizophrenic fiasco, I hate you!
(And I swear, this time he was sincere.)

6:33 a.m.

Yesterday’s unmade bed,
cold-sweats,

sheets that stink of melodrama,
welcome him to hide from a now nearly-sober state.

I lock him in.

Prop a pillow at his spine,
(the good boy it once was, thanks me).

Oh, you poor man,

gambler, cheat, brute,

what have they done to you?

This is your dead father’s gift:
remnants of his soul, mightily
waging war within you.

Let us curse him wickedly,
however, not abuse him in this
your own haggard body!

And it is entirely your mother’s fault, I know,
for leaving.

Damn her cancer!

When you awaken,

I want to make you oatmeal,
with cinnamon and cream,

nurture myself in normalcy.

Oh, I’ll whistle happily and pretend…

—until one of your ghosts stab me in the back!

©December 2008

Maria DellaPorte

© By Maria On 12/12/2008 7:29:32 PM