the secret in the chamber

My buddies and their time capsule minds

At least I'm not alone in this, not the only one

with this thread to pull and

unravel and awake to find myself

in a pile of soggy wool, still warm,

but also damp, and slowly wrinkling up my flesh.

A million tiny paper airplanes swarming 

like winged keys, sharp and toothed,

but also delicate, and multiplying

Two new for every One I manage to catch in my fists,

open, and read, thankful for my callused hands

in this task, but those calluses don't go

beneath the surface, to my heart.

My heart never has enough time to grow calluses 

between each onslaught.

Maybe if the paper airplanes

were made of soft tissue, the kind

with the lotion inside to keep your nose

(or heart) from blistering and bleeding

from all the unnecessary wiping and rubbing, blowing,

sniffling. We know how to take 

care of ourselves. Put down

those winged keys, step out of

the swarm, and find that

the door was never locked all along.

A fresh breeze, healing 

saltwater, and a gentle setting

sun on the other side.

You take a deep breath

and wonder why you thought

you had to hold it for this long.

You sink into the sand, and weep.

Reviews

[Kay]

The way you open your poem with these descriptions and imagery is beautiful. I was especially drawn to this scene: "this thread to pull and/unravel and awake to find myself/in a pile of soggy wool, still warm,/but also damp, and slowly wrinkling up my flesh". I could feel it, well done! =)

[jacob erin-cilberto]

a chamber of memory...and a heart with no time to grow calluses...so each hurt takes a piece of heart at a time...
but as poets we get to write out the pain...and when we realize we can let it go that way...
i think we want to sink into that sand and weep for joy.
a very moving write, here.
j.

[lizardbrain]

thanks jacob :) problem is how often I forget that we Can let it go that way..