Spirits of Incest

Even before I was a teenager, I was a solitary girl. In school I would sharpen my wits, then balance it on the edge of Lyle Knob seesawing with a friend called insanity. On windy nights the snow ball bush blossom drifted like snow. At first light I walked out and stood in it barefoot. The cold feet of a dead mind. I hugged my razor in my nighties pocket. Rich, poor, drunk or sober, we have lost touch son. I remember trying to kill your dad with a frying pan, then, later, praying for death. I was keen with love and hate, dark days by the stoned brook, sunlight the cutting edge of my eyes. Now your days have begun, 21, the child who danced on the mountain cliffs to some music no one else could hear had glassy-eyes, no perception razor sharp and no fear but something worse, a simple desire to please your mother who stayed distant to watch people shuffle back and forth, your mind wrapped in the grey area of another ordinary day. I'm serious. There's no sense in killing yourself, son. I am all the more bitter for saying this before the fact. Family life is a joke, I know - I lived with dad as my childhood sweetheart all my young days so who's laughing. Now I turn away, little in common but memories. On Lyle Knob at the bottom of our hill, my grandfather's still, dressed the mourning. At home, your drinking stalks terror in the wake of my blood. I never anticipated a slow suicide for us both.**Footnote: This does not describe anyone I know present or past. I am trying to capture feelings of someone in this situation.** Written September 26th, 2001 © on Sep 26 2001 09:33 AM PST   0 • 9