Saturday, May 29, 2010


Some vital piece is gone,
torn away,
and we are left unbalanced,
for what was
and is no more;
and feeling
as if there were
some neon halo overhead,
some bright pink arrow
pointing to the wound and flashing
"Damaged Goods. Damaged Goods."
Each death that we survive --
relationship, job, parent or child, breast, or limb --
a dream,
ripped from the side like Adam's rib:
seed of something new,
but still --
the scars remain.

(This poem is for Robin)

* * *


Maureen said...

This hits home so well. I'm going to post a link to it at OurCancer.

Kimberly Mason said...

It's so beautiful. So beautiful.

Maureen said...

I came back to re-read and to look at the image, which is stunning. There is so much beauty in it, something that renders it so poignant and moving and unforgettable.