Old and slow
like a rock for my family
on the broken scree
of a sliding slope,
I lay down aching
and wake with a groan
as I hold my gut
and let voice drain
the painful feeling.
I always wanted
to mean more to them;
perhaps this is how,
by knowing the earth
of my own body,
aged and faltering
on the slow descent.
What is difficult for me
looks solid to them,
dependable, trustworthy.
I need to remember this
as I struggle to the bathroom
fending off appointments.
I’m not what I think
or feel for that matter
but the carving I’ve become,
willing to be like the whale
covered in debris and fissured skin,
crusted with barnacles,
lumbering through blue green depth
to become the ocean’s memory.
