52 Hurts; cycle 1

a woman you once loved, she took the pain
of a chaotic upbringing and tried to tame 
it through tight control. Her days scheduled
with meditation and yoga, with krafts 
and projects and frequent human contact. 
she laughed freely and loved widely,
a nurturing woman, kind and flowering.
though when you watched her, she 
unaware of your eyes, you saw the twitch 
and tremble of her grip. the quaking 
effort of holding on so tight. her hands 
playing a minor tremolo, a quiver 
at the apex of her mouth.

she planted a small garden,
at a rented home next to the ocean.
the ocean and the home, both 
of which you once together shared. 
the seeds have now sprouted, shaking
the soil as they reach for Summer light. yet your harvest 
is meager, consumption of garden’s vegetal fruit,
limited. a bite of lettuce, a few stalks 
of kale, all that’s made it into your body. 

your body, haunted and hollow, incandescent with
pain. though maybe that’s really only 
your mind. she sought control and you relentlessly
pursued annihilation. the cracked pane of a chemical
chaos. glass, really a liquid after all. 

now you daily patrol garden beds,
plucking with tremor’d grip the slugs 
that gently feed. and with your teenaged pitching arm,
you hurl them into the sea. perhaps there is 
a seedling day which will sprout, a future
harvest, and you will then pick more than 
slugs, from a garden of love’s planting. 

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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