Wednesday, April 27, 2011

When Her Head Hit the Pavement . . .

What is important to you is
        important to me . . .
built on yesterday's
  branches each
growth becoming the strength of the next
and the whole held up through
a central core

beauty meaning less

then strength
strength less than integrity
integrity less then existence . . 
a holistic approach
to the levels of 
living produces
a direct answer 
to the meaning

Silver shots from the
sides of his hub caps and
his speeding car rolls over
a mere bump in the road

what it meant to him
was little

but laughter grew


and a warm 
flesh grew cold
and the moments
of a future 
became as nothing

and your silky hair twisted in the wind

before they laid that
on you
as you lay there
on the cold gritty sidewalk . . .

and there was blood
     on the ground
there was blood
on the ground
where your
head rested
in the end

on the gray

the cold gray. . .

stained with your blood . ..

blood shaped
like a bird

like a heart
glistening with your blood

and your face
peeled away

one moment smiling
then flying
one minuscule fraction of an inch
above the ground

you flew
you lived

and then you were gone 

>>>>"When Her Head Hit the Pavement" is a poem about my sister's death.  I often think about that fraction of a moment after she was hit by the drunk driver . . . She had been sitting on her motorcycle so she was alive as she went airborne . . . and fractions of a second before she hit that pavement . ..  and then she was gone . ..  its that second that holds me . ..  her last moments on this earth . . . the last thing she saw . . .and then she was gone . . .<<<<<

Let me make this clear . .. My sister and I were very close. In many ways I was like a mother to her . . . she had a key to my house and not a day went by that she didn't come by to eat dinner, or we would talk on the phone. Of course I have a million happy moments to remember about her. but . . .

The last time I saw her, she was riding up the street on her motorcycle . . . without her helmet . . . her fine hair blowing in the breeze. . . I was planning on calling her to nag her to keep her helmet on when riding. . . I missed that chance because I was busy with life. . .  and it was my first thought when I realized she had been hit . . . that I should have called her. 

I fully understand that I am not responsible for her death. But things may have been different . . . I don't know . . . But I am not belittling my sister's life or my experiences with her . . . I am expressing my feelings about that split second between life and death . . . because in my mind it is a profound moment and makes me wonder what my moment will be . . .   


"My heart"
the beating heart . . .
emotional and yet
so vital . . . so beautiful. . .
the essence of you
the warmth of you . . the fires you burn . .
my hand lays over your ribcage
and I feel a small bird fluttering there . .
you have my heart . . .
I have yours. . . in love . ..
and together we rise up as one
with the strength of their wings . ..
bound together . . .
at peace together . . .
we fly . .
my heart, your heart . . .
until the day we die
my heart, your heart . .
stilled forever . .


Sometimes I reach out and touch the chests of the small children who are in too much of a hurry and I feel their beating hearts . . . and it feels so fragile and precious . ..  all our hearts like little birds . . . beating their wings . . . but they only have a portion of time to beat . . . and so . . .

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