"We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike." ~Maya Angelou

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Poem: Blindsided

Not often, but still,
a particular song will play,
   or I see one of his students,
    and my heart jerks open,
      my throat constricts,
and my eyes fill.

Out of nowhere,
unintentional and unexpected,
  some small turn of phrase,
    a glimpse of familiar posture,
      the sight of unexpected beauty,
opens the wound.

Has grief worked its healing,
assuming it does, if it can still
   spring to life in an instant,
     or have I only succeeded
       in firmly bolting the door,
sealing it away?

If so, couldn't I have
managed that sooner,
  skipping those endless months of
    lashing, searing sorrow,
      bewildered at the
intensity of this loss?

I say I am done, I am past it,
and then someone stands in a doorway
    with the light behind them,
      and my breath catches,
         for a half-second of hope
in the impossible.

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