It takes me over

300 words Entry Two It takes me over

I suffer from indecision, my grandmother’s hips and endless possibility,

from the reality of serial killers, to the beaten aspect of my ascension sign, InDesign, Version 23 and my own inability to convince my

“Once upon a time” lover of my serious intentions, my directions, and my perfect faith in physics.

Through the looking glass, I have fallen

My fingers trace each other on the membrane of what is the silky strand of a memory of his olive – what the email tells me is now a cancerous — skin,

I wonder where it was, if I touched it

If I touched it again if I could convince it to go away

The rain that last day, having swept over the city, left a pink sky

Left that summer heat, water, pavement and oil smell in the air

The one time we took the cage that weekend was to his buddy’s house to pick up parts for the Night Train

He tried to tell the steering wheel how he felt, while -I- felt like an intruder ,

it was before he even knew, how to explain to someone

How to explain the rain that day, the black switch-back roads, the sail boats and yachts, the green, the pastures, how to explain the way it felt to have me slide into him from behind when we came to a sudden stop, the wind in our helmets, and the smell of the smoke from the shared Romeo and Juliet cigar in the chill, late summer morning air

I said, “I’ll write a poem.”

He said, “I’d like to read your poem, but how do you explain?”

That day on the bike, winding through the streets of Suffolk County by Long Island Sound

Picture perfect towns, horse country, the Harley motors making the Kincaid colors run

The sun hid all day and so I learned to be submissive to things I couldn’t understand,

But now I don’t want to be submissive to this thing that I don’t understand, I want the power to end this to be in my hands…

but in the Alanon meetings I’m learning some things, like, how to pray again,

and God, I pray you hear me,

God grant me

The Serenity to live in this world I guess where the happiness I felt that day on the back of his bike may never come around again,

Grant me

The Courage to find the words though each one gouge me like a cruel surgeon’s scalpel, and each word covered in blood comes from some essence of some part of me that is going to die soon, or be, reborn soon,

Grant me

The wisdom to enjoy every suffering as though it were the last, God

And if I pray it’s not the last God,

Will you grant the strength to endure it this one last time?

And God forgive me,

But he’s the one who hangs the moon.

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