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More Than She Knew
She sits by a bright, bare window
in a chair that has seen too much wet.
She is picking on days in her past,
fingers digging nervously into scalp.
Her nails are unkempt and bloody.
It’s an old habit, this searching for answers
in any place her palms can reach.
Last month it was a sore on her knee;
the month before, she became convinced
a bone was coming through her ankle.
She felt for it continuously, with vigor,
until a round bloody hole was dug.
The dirty bandage is still there,
though no one will ever visit to see it.
Sometimes she can do nothing but scream.
Her voice carries down hallways to haunt
the dreams of someone else‘s company.
Strangers wonder what torments her so.
They walk by her door; see the frail body,
eyes closed, mouth open, hands searching.
They look away, and walk away, quickly.
The young doctor comes every Tuesday
to perform a cursory update in her chart.
Depression. Obsessive. Compulsive.
Possible history of post traumatic dementia.
But, when the hall lights go down at night,
she remembers a happy house on Crystal Lake,
and a girl who searched for answers in her palm.
Shirley Alexander
2010
Background:
I was a volunteer in a local nursing home for several years. I would help with baths, do manicures, brush hair, clean dentures, read books out loud, and (more often than not) just sit and listen. I saw so much pain.
This poem is really a compilation of many characters. There actually was a lady from a place called Crystal Lake, or so she said. There were screamers, women who scratched holes in their scalps, and one man who dug for bones in his feet. It always seemed to me that they were digging for answers, mostly as to what had happened to bring them to this place in their lives. It broke my heart every time I went, but I went, because most of them expected me.
All of the women, and sometimes the men, I talked with told me they were going home soon. None of them knew their houses had already been emptied and re-occupied by other people, usually the very family members who never visited.
I quit going to the nursing home when I started taking care of my brother. I have not been back, and most of the people I knew there are gone now. I doubt I will ever do it again. I am getting older myself, and I have already seen too much pain for my years. Still, it worries me when I think of myself, and of Dude*, and where we might be, not so many years from now.
* "The Dude" is my 28 year old son, Richard. Richard has Down Syndrome. He is high functioning, and he is the joy of my life.
Tags: aging mental.illness life
My Position
He said I sleep like an unborn child, naked,
with knees drawn to belly, hands clasped
palm to palm, and held tightly together
by thighs clasped tightly together, by instinct.
He said he lifts the sheet from my skin,
turns the lamp to a shadow maker,
and watches my dreams rise and fall
from his worn chair, best used for reading.
I said I am clasped, not an open book.
He said he has read me, front to back,
and he asked my permission to write
the final chapter, just before I left.
Shirley Alexander
©2010
Tags: poetry writing
Fear of Falling
Fifty years ago, my sister and I raced across a long, high porch;
jumped off the end to fly across daffodils and old barking dogs.
That was before my sister fell.
She sprained her arm on harder ground.
Afterward, I would run across the porch,
leap into abandon, arms open to sky.
My sister would run to the edge,
brake a full stop, sit down, and cry.
I never understood her fear of jumping,
or the tears she shed for what was lost.
I spent a lifetime long jumping from one thrill to the next, fearless.
Then, one day I took the highest leap, for love. Now I understand.
Shirley Alexander
2010
Tags: poetry writing
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Geode
Posted On 11/22/2010 05:31:44
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Geode
He wrote a simple poem, the kind best read alone;
no pretences, or awkward dictionary interruptions.
But, one line went around in an intriguing way.
It was broader, deeper than what I had first seen.
I inserted myself into the crevice, pushed
against walls of understanding, until
the whole thing fell apart in my head,
and what I found inside those words
was magic
Shirley Alexander
2010
Tags: poetry
Red Mourning
The day we buried Eddie, it snowed.
We gathered like penguins on ice,
all in black; black suits, dresses,
black umbrellas turned against gusts.
Black veils shrouded our hearts in grief,
and draped into the open hole of his life.
But she stood like a wounded heart,
splayed and bleeding its fire,
dressed all in red; red dress, shoes,
red umbrella kissing the sky.
Scarlet veils bled love from her veins,
and dripped into the open whole of his life.
People will talk. She said nothing
until the last flower was laid in snow.
Red is my love’s favorite, she whispered
to those silent men with black shovels.
I want to know he looks down from heaven;
smiles me vibrant in this cold and lonely world.
Shirley Alexander
2010
Tags: poetry http://shirleyalexander.wordpress.com/
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