COMA
I think of home, dream of home,
but it is
no place I
have ever lived
always something there
to crack the frame, tear
the picture
turn what might
and should have been
precious memory
into moment
of pain
and so
this is what you told us
would be home
this is where you brought us
your conception
of, if not abode of love,
at least
lap of luxury
the brick box
I grew up in
so much of what I was,
am,
lived through
soaked into those floorboards,
absorbed by the cement
and things said
and cherished
and things said
that never should have been said
days of light
days of darkness
days
of peace
and days
of war
the three of us sponges as it all
despite all refusal, contrary
to our best efforts
why we
can no longer share
cannot ever now
clinig together
home as house now
a graveyard
a series of rooms
somewhere connected
a labyrinth of ghosts
who do not speak
the sunshine
we were expecting
who
never spoke that sunshine
to our infinite loss
home
home
home
I try to say the word
as if it were, as if it
might become
a magical charm
or at least a mantra
home
will have to
let
myself sleep
on that word
for a while
perhaps forever
,
was a dream
was a hope forever
now is a sepulcher
place of bare bones
must
read and re-
read their configuration
like a
shaman
my place of dream turned
nightmare (at least
at the edges)
hope
for the day
there will be no talk of dream
no memory of dream
even of its
disappearance
just a cold, blank emptiness
the stuff
of coma.