by Beverly Cummings
Walking becomes deeper with the daffodils, crocuses, tulips and hyacinths. The magnolia tree in full blossom. A lost lover in front of the building. Realize it is an illusion.
Waking up in intensive care, clinging to life; a suicide case. My mother says we almost lost her a few times. My once upon a time husband tells me when he visited in hospital I was totally insane. The doctors said I might never recover. He left in tears. Recognizing psychotic thoughts is more than a pastime. I have been ill for years at a time. It is by a miracle I am sane again.
Flesh on the bone, is growing old the realization of how much time you waste and have wasted? The need for probity, yet wanting to atrophy. I am losing the generation that spawned me. Try for quiet but the mind rumbles. Am I winning or losing this battle? Things have changed. I don’t know where I’m going. Growth is like a tumour.
This week deranged; the unexpected careening up, full of turmoil and disorder. I watch the evening news and my psyche calms. The planet so crazy.
Even paper flowers wilt. The nacreous evening sky arcane. The downtown sirens. Keep it terse. Like pointillism the world is visible between the atoms. Swarms of red ants clot the sidewalk. Crazy touch, the way the moon moves in and out of your fingertips.