Spells In Heartbreak

I set to write the spells in
heartbreak.
The aborted child.
The lost capitalist culture.
The absent love of parents.
The lover whose heart I broke.
The lover who broke my heart.
The abusive father.
The abusive and withholding
partner, and the anger and anxiety
lived towards them.
The two cats who revolutionized
my soul, then lived, created
something joyous,
then died and went away.
The gender I am but in some way
will never wholly be in
other people’s eyes.
The hurtful things said.
The hurtful things heard that
are never surmounted once said.
The living of self that always
carries a crushed something.
The gentle smile I still manage
in soft quiet moments
with myself very still or
across to another’s eyes
who needs my gentle smile.
But I did not write these spells
in word —
I lived and live them.
And I guess they taught and
teach me to
love and love onward
somehow,
in a lifetime, in a life form, in a life
way remade, reformed, and
even revisited.
That is their spell.
That is the spells in heartbreak.

Heartsick

“Lightning strikes, maybe once? Maybe twice?”

– Fleetwood Mac (from the song Gypsy)

We both smoke
cigarettes
right now
because we’re heartsick.
So in love with the biggest
love we’ve both ever known,
but too tired to move forward.
So we puff, we puff, and puff
to give up on each other.
But I also go out
regularly each morning
and run an 8:45 minute mile…

because I’m strong-hearted,
rooted deep in my soul.

I wish… well… I wanted her
to value my strong heart and soulfulness.
But she didn’t,
so I continue on, running
and smoking and feeling and
mourning.
My heart continues with
the mad beauty and love
that I am
and that I have to offer.

A Bath When Sad

The bath when sad
reminds me of the last day
my cat was alive.
I bathed in ablution
before I went to put him
to sleep.
Afterwards, when I got home
to the empty house
I bathed in ablution again
and cried and cried.
Then I remember how
5 minutes after I had put him
to sleep,
out in the parking lot of the vet,
my partner at the time
argued with me about
when would I be showing up
to hangout with her and her girls
that night.
I remember that feeling;
complete disbelief and despair
that she would argue with me,
care about needing to know
such a thing, there in that moment,
in such a raw and tender moment,
the lifeless body of my 17 year old
cat laying right before us
wrapped in a towel
in the trunk of my car
… and then,
I get more sad.

Now —
The cat is gone.
She is gone.
Her girls are gone.
The cat is a spiritual presence
for me still, an everlasting being
and feeling of love.
She is something I don’t want
to remember, but still do
in lots of hurtful ways.

Mother’s Call

Mother never called
after I was hurting.
She still didn’t understand
I’m a daughter now.
She never understood the ways
I was when I was a boy either,
so I parented myself.
Now as a 44 year old woman,
crying and broken,
I become
my own impeccable mother
because I can now.
I recognize something vacant.
I parent myself again.
I always wanted a daughter.