Piece of pain in my pocket

Tomorrow marks three years since Isaiah died.  It is true, time makes a difference.  It doesn’t heal, it becomes more familiar each bout in the ring.  We learn to live with the pain and carry on.  Written back in January 2008.

.

In my pocket is a piece of my heart.

It is a good place for it.

Close by to me

within reach.

.

This piece is broken from the rest.

Its weight changes

like a piece of wood

burdened with water, it sinks

.

deep

into

sorrow.

Too heavy for my pocket

.

I pull it out

carefully, but the edges

are too sharp

to hold for long.

.

Not for my hands

the pain

cuts my eyes

and into my right.  Tears

.

splash concrete.

I place the piece

back in my pocket

and continue working.

.

 

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8 thoughts on “Piece of pain in my pocket

  1. Andrew, thank you for sharing that poem. I like the way you demonstrate the unmanageable nature of grief. I imagine it took some time to press the ‘publish’ button. I expect that you have noticed that the jasmine is very lovely this year. I cannot see it now without thinking of a lad I never met.

    On on.
    J Dub.

    1. You’re welcome JDub and thank you for your comment. Our sabotaged fence of Jasmine struggled but managed many more ‘five perfect little fingers’ than expected. Very nice you think of him you never met.
      Andrew

  2. It took me a little longer than I myself wanted to come and leave a comment mainly because the idea of a piece of a heart (a heavy one) in a pocket, reminded me of the terrible way Virginia Woolf put an end to her life.

    Hearts were not made for pockets. It’s uncomfortable inside them, difficult to breath, difficult to beat (in their specific situation). You take this piece and the other ones you may have somewhere and build a castle, like the former Middle Ages ones, to keep your beloved ones safely placed. I’ll visit it someday, promise.

    Take care and keep smiling, boy.

  3. Dear Andrew
    This is a beautiful website. And thanks to you, too, Kenia Cris, for the stones in her pocket. Hit me like one thrown. A part of me has always, I realise writing this very post only, resented, or reviled, or condemned or been superior to her for this and other actions, even more so as a result of reading Glendinning’s bio of her husband Leonard. But your word “stones”… [Well, I’ll be! Something unconscious sent me back to your post, Kenia Cris, to get the exact way you set the stones word in your jewelled post and bugger me the word is not there. Which means it is, of course. More concretley than if it were written. How stunning. (Paean intended. Almost.)]

  4. concretely, that is. Ahh, it’s reassuring to see something awry in my post, like an imperfection in a grecian urn, to earn myself a little slack (will I ever accept that word?) from the gods and keep down my unpenanced hubris quota.

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