polymyalgia rheumatica (mother’s side.)
the door’s caught somewhere between here and there,
caught in amongst debris of oft-forgotten vices,
habits stripped and consoled, afterwards.
dementia, rheumatism, cerebral ataxia,
acronyms, initials that spell a.c.d.i. | A.D.
(afterwards) caught in amongst
lolling, gagged, drawn,
sought after. the door still caught, you can’t open it.
whether it matters or not what’s on the other side.
the phrase, ‘P.T.G.’ — months’ worth.//
six minutes in. seven years prior.
it doesn’t reflect like it did. less a mirror
than acting mud.
your hand rests on the burnished glass
of the door handle. you’ll only wake up again anyway.
seven years, now. how many times will we say that until it becomes clear? still can’t bring yourself to kick it ajar. nothing so simple. murmuring static and voices on the other side. six minutes in. she’d gone deaf. seven years prior. couldn’t hear a thing. close the door on another slumping year. leaning on all fours against the wall, blood trickles down from the hole in the side of your head. something’s growing down there.
no surprise when the screaming starts.
you’d said not to look. you can’t be the only one responsible.
now she’s caught somewhere between the door
and the colossus of wrapping paper, soup cans,
beer cans, bottles, and cardboard boxes.
presents. check your watch. neither hand signs out.
the feeling recedes. you jump back into your body.
it’s not so hard now. in fact, it’s all so easy.
the knife is still stuck in there, somewhat deep.
not so hard. flashback. a memory. seven years prior.
still the door won’t open. caught between.
in amongst. then, more acronyms. check them off the list.
|o.c.d.// a.d.d.// a.s.d.|
|a.c.d.i.// A.D. (father’s side.)|
just another minute; convergence.
year when#, check it off the list,
along with other nonsense rhymes and dots, loops.
it hardly reflects at all. you’re growing. it all came so easy.
stroke the key backwards. retardation: stalled; atrophic,
and the like. note: polymyalgia rheumatica (mother’s side.)
sift through the glass hilltops, your hand still caught,
little gifts placed under a certain tree, the night before.
there she is, groping through the darkness,
only the blue light flicker that claims ownership
over the scattered vocal intonations and incessant hum
to guide her step, but unlike you she isn’t caught
on the threshold. her burgeoning body casts a shadow
somewhere between your own learnt present
and her disrobing present — your future—
naked in the eye of ever-after, and the like.
your hand still grasping that burnished glass,
no reflection, consideration.
screaming stops. no sound now. deafened.
then, two simultaneous thuds, her knees on the plain wood;
might leave a bruise.
and there you are, as usual:
on all fours, hands in the dirt and glass shards,
caught at the barrier, crawling to the threshold.
but to get there, you have to reach halfway first.
no chance. you’ll be there forever.