Ink·Heart·Serrations

Ink·Heart·Serrations

She suffers,
& I am useless,
incapable of soothing
her pain,
her profound loss,
her unrelievable grief!

How can she 
grieve
when her Love 
is not dead,
merely trapped
in a dungeon—
his own devise—
his demise
a concoction of poor choices,
arrogance & ego,
deep insecurity
masked as toxic
machismo?

Her Love is undead,
the great black wight,
barely a whisper
haunting
the collapsing
hallways of her heart,
& I can only bear
witness 
because I must hide
my own love, lest
in my selfish want
of her she feels 
smothered,
deprived 
of the space 
she needs to mourn.

¿What, because I dream
of my every morning
dawning with her 
in silhouette,
a shadow
against every
subversive sunrise?

& so we all suffer,
all of our hearts
incarcerated—
his imprisoned
within walls
of iron & concrete,
hers imprisoned
under the weight
of loss & absence,
mine behind
a loneliness
only she can cure 
& a foreboding fear
of losing her
forever—
all held 
in solitary,
confined
to the empty 
wastelands of our souls,
where hope 
can only be measured
by the pinpricks
of light that linger:
the imperfect promises
of love deferred. 

Oyá

Oyá

"Your son was blessed 

with life, but it comes 

at a price. The rabbit,
who's throat you sliced
open in my graveyard, 

my temple,
is not enough 

for this child,"
came the words
from my ten
year-old mouth—
not my words.

"Your child was mine,
is mine,
has always been
mine.
He is on loan
at my discretion,
Eternally returnable to
sender, & it pains me
every day I am
without him."

I was there, but I wasn't—
lost beneath the weight
of Puerto Rican rum
& Dominican cigar
& Oyá, orisha of the dead,
Original Mother.

"He will live,
but you will not,"
dragged dread
through my heart as
my mouth continued
to spout another's
Words. ¡Yet, I could not
stop! "I will leave him
here, for now,
for the world to use
his gifts a while
longer, but know this:
I will take each & every
one of you instead."

I realized then
that loving me
is a death sentence
no words
could ever 

complete.