Fury and Forgetfulness

Let's talk about anger.
Your anger. Mine.
Does it really matter
whose? Our anger
swells oceans, roils them

with discontent.

Is anger a state of disease?
Do you think about that? 
Do you count the times
you win? Is that happiness

for you? Or is it restlessness?

Is restless as close as you

can get to happiness?

 

Yet you insist you're happy.

You insist angrily. Slammed doors.

Sour looks. Glares. Muttered curses.

"Life" you tell me with satisfied fury

"is a s**t sandwich." "Life"

you thunder "is a piece of crap."

You say this even as you hold
our infant child in your arms.

 

What do you want?

Nothing.
What will help?

Nothing.

What can I do to make it better?

Nothing.
"I'm fine."

"I'm fine."

"I'm fine."

 

Day by day, week, month

the storms of your ill content,

your disease, erode my serenity,

dissolve it like acid eating

through clouds. So I'm pushed

and squeezed, argued with, beaten

down until nothing remains but rage,
the raw nerve of it exposed
like a fresh wound, a rotten tooth.

You've drained all my reserves

of forgiveness, left me dry and brittle.

Id squeezed from a tube. Spilt like blood.

Spent like sperm. Emptiness.
Disability. Disease. Still

 

I keep moving,
driving and working,
writing and carrying on,
cleaning up, picking up.
Smiling. Trying. I don't
even understand why
I'm trying. It's not
for love. I don't feel

enough to hate you.

Because

 

beyond rage is nothing.
Emptiness.

After I loved you is not a choice,

it's a place. I could and do

lay on our bed for months,

not sure where I am.

You're scared now, willing

finally to talk because I must

be crazy.

 

That's the only explanation

you'll accept.

So I have your acceptance.

Should I be relieved? Grateful? 
I observe the way your face moves,

its practiced sympathy. I stare

at your mouth, watch desperation

shift your expressions like pictures

in an exhibition. There's nothing

to take back, make go away, 

nothing left to turn around.

 

Emptiness is amorphous. It has no

other side where love thrives.
You can't reason it back to life

because it's not possible

to regenerate love from death.

Reviews

[Toni Prehoda Kahler]

This whole piece is so wide open, skimming emotional surfaces, diving deep. What's so incredible to me is the familiarity of it all, including the descent into emptiness. Depression is repulsive to those who love life in all its rich array of tones. You show the raw edge of deep wounds...this is a brave writing, revealing the slip-slide into empty knowing, into the finality of knowing the truth.
I am moved by this writing, by your journey, your endurance, your ability to describe these details. When you describe his fierce, dark words while he holds your baby in his arms---it makes me gasp, all too familiar, all too familiar.
This is a strong write from beginning to end.

[Denny]

Not what I remember you writing in the past. In the past you taught me of other peoples and places. Today you write of troubles much closer to home. Fact or fiction it's a not read, but flows from line to line as you usually do.

[Tara]

I am reviewing purely on an emotional level because that is where this hit me. Very raw and relatable. I know many women you speak for here.